UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


POEMS 


POEMS 


BY 

THEODORE  MAYNARD 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1917,  1918,  by  Daniel  E.  Hudson;  Copyright,  1917, 
joi8,  by  The  Sisters  of  Mercy;  Copyright,  1917,  1919,  by  The 
Missionary  Society  oj  St.  Paul  the  Apostle  in  the  State  oj  New 
York. 


Copyright,  1919,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


2  <r 
TO  M4< 

MY  WIFE 


We  fa>0  Aave  seen  with  our  own  eyes 
God's  multitudinous  disguise  ; 
Waylaid  Him  in  His  voyaging 
Among  the  buttercups  of  Spring  ; 
In  valleys  where  the  lilies  shone 
More  glorious  than  Solomon 
We  met  a  poet  passing  by, 
And  learned  his  lyric — you  and  1 1 

But  oh  I  did  kindly  Heaven  not  bless 
Our  lives  with  more  than  loveliness, 
|L      When,  cast  on  every  sapling-rod, 
H       Was  seen  the  motley  of  our  God  ; 
I§       When  having  picked  our  way  with  craft 
Jf       Up  cliffs  to  hear  Him  when  He  laughed, 

We  felt,  uplifted  on  the  wind, 
CM      His  folly  blown  into  our  mind  ? 

CD 

What  doubt  can  touch  us  ?    We  have  heard 
o 
CM      The  baby  laughter  of  the  Word  I 

en.      We  mingle  with  solemnity 

^     A  Catholic  note  of  revelry 
In  hypostatic  union. 

g=     From  love's  carved  choir-stalls  we  con 

g      The  plain-song  of  the  Breviary 

J±!      Illumined  by  hilarity. 

For  as  each  cleansing  sacrament 
To  our  soul's  comforting  was  sent 
(Through  water  and  oil  and  wheat  and 
Bringing  to  human  the  divine), 
So  shall  we  find  on  lovers'  lips 
The  splendour  of  apocalypse, 
[v] 


402647 


DEDICATION 

And  through  the  body's  five  gates  come 
To  all  the  good  of  Christendom. 

We  have  no  fear  that  we  shall  lose 

This  joyous  Gospel  of  good  news, 

For  our  symbolic  love  has  stood 

By  virtue  of  its  fortitude — 

Knowing  a  bitter  Lenten  fast, 

Satan  discomforted  at  last, 

A  bowed  back  scalding  with  great  scars, 

Gethsemane  of  tears  and  stars, 

A  journey  of  the  cross,  and  ah, 

Its  part  and  lot  in  Golgotha  I 

We  know — let  the  marvellous  thing  be  said  I — 
Love's  resurrection  from  the  dead  . . . 
For  as  Magdalen  came  with  cinnamon 
And  aloes  to  smear  Love's  limbs  upon, 
But  met  alone  on  the  Easier  grass 
Life's  Lord,  though  she  wist  not  Who  He  was — 
So  we,  till  He  spoke  as  He  spoke  to  her, 
Mistook  Him  for  the  gardener. 

April  1 4th,  igi8. 


[vi] 


NOTE 

This  edition  of  Theodore  Maynard's  poems  represents 
the  author's  own  selection  of  such  of  his  published 
verse  as  he  wishes  included  in  a  permanent  collection. 
With  few  omissions,  it  represents  the  contents  of  the 
three  volumes  issued  in  Great  Britain  under  the  titles, 
61  Laughs  and  Whifts  of  Song"  1915;  "Drums  of  Defeat," 
1917;  "Folly,"  1918,  none  of  which  has  hitherto  been 
published  in  this  country. 


[  vii] 


ON  THEODORE  MAYNARD'S 
POEMS 

IN  the  case  of  any  poet  who  has  cuaght  and  held  our 
recollection,  there  is  generally  a  particular  piece  of 
work  which  remains  in  our  mind,  not  as  the  crown, 
but  as  the  key.  And  ever  since  I  saw  in  The  New 
Witness  some  lines  called  "A  Song  of  Colours,"  by 
Theodore  Maynard,  they  have  remained  to  me  as  a 
sort  of  simplification,  or  permanent  element,  of  the 
rest  of  the  poet's  writings;  and  I  have  felt  him  espe- 
cially as  a  poet  of  colour.  They  are  not  by  any  means 
the  best  of  his  lines.  They  are  direct,  as  is  appropriate 
to  a  ballad;  and  they  have  none  of  the  fine  whimsi- 
cality or  the  frank  humour  to  be  found  elsewhere  in 
his  work.  Among  these  others  the  choice  is  hard: 
but  I  should  say  that  the  finest  poetry  as  such  is  to 
be  found  in  the  images,  and  even  in  the  very  title,  of 
"The  World's  Miser":  and  even  more  in  the  poem 
called  "Apocalypse."  In  this  latter  the  poet  imagines 
a  new  world  which  shall  be  supernatural  in  the  strongest 
sense  of  the  word;  that  of  being  more  vivid  and  posi- 
tive than  the  natural;  and  not  (as  it  is  so  often  imag- 
ined) more  tenuous  and  void. 

"  Or  what  empurpled  blooms  to  oust  the  rose 
Or  what  strange  grass  to  glow  like  angels'  hair!" 

The  last  line  has  the  touch  of  the  true  mystic,  which 
changes  a  thing  and  yet  leaves  it  familiar.  True 
artistic  pugnacity,  a  thing  that  generally  goes  with 
true  artistic  pleasure,  is  well-expressed  in  the  shrewd 
lines  of  the  poem  printed  as  a  sequel  to  another  poem 
called  "To  a  Good  Atheist."  The  sequel  is  called  "To 
[ix  J 


ON  THEODORE  MAYNARD'S  POEMS 

a  Bad  Atheist,"  with  the  charming  explanation: 
"Who  wrote  what  he  called  a  trinity  of  meek  retorts 
to  the  preceding  poem,  which  were  not  meek,  but  full 
of  pride  and  abominable  heresy."  He  describes  the 
bad  atheist's  mind  as  containing  nothing  but  sawdust, 
sun  and  sand;  which  is  accurate  and  exhaustive. 
And  in  so  far  as  poetry  appeals  to  particular  tempera- 
ments, I  myself  find  enjoyment  expecially  in  the  part 
of  the  collection  properly  to  be  called  "Laughs"; 
in  the  ballads  of  feasting  and  fellowship;  and  espe- 
cially in  that  sublime  absolution  gravely  offered  to  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk. 

But  the  sentiment  of  colour  still  ran  like  a  thread 
through  the  whole  texture;  and  I  think  there  is  hardly 
a  poem  that  does  not  repeat  it.  And  this  is  important; 
because  the  whole  of  Mr.  Maynard's  inspiration  is 
part  of  what  is  the  main  business  of  our  time:  the 
resurrection  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  modern  move- 
ment, with  its  Guild  Socialism  and  its  military  reaction 
against  the  fatalism  of  the  Barbarian,  is  as  certainly 
drawing  its  life  from  the  lost  centuries  of  Catholic 
Europe,  as  the  movement  more  commonly  called  the 
Renaissance  drew  its  life  from  the  lost  languages 
and  sculptures  of  antiquity.  And,  by  a  quaint  incon- 
sistency, Hellenists  and  Neo-Pagans  of  the  school  of 
Mr.  Lowes  Dickinson  will  call  us  antiquated  for 
gathering  the  flowers  which  still  grow  on  the  graves  of 
our  mediaeval  ancestors,  while  they  themselves  will 
industriously  search  for  the  scattered  ashes  from  the 
more  distant  pyres  of  the  Pagans. 
[x] 


ON  THEODORE  MAYNARD'S  POEMS 

And  the  visible  clue  to  the  Middle  Ages  is  colour. 
The  mediaeval  man  could  paint  before  he  could  draw. 
In  the  almost  startling  inspiration  which  we  call 
stained  glass,  he  discovered  something  that  is  almost 
more  coloured  than  colour;  something  that  bears  the 
same  relation  to  mere  colour  that  golden  flame  does 
to  golden  sand.  He  did  not,  like  other  artists,  try  in 
his  pictures  to  paint  the  sun;  he  made  the  sun 
paint  his  pictures.  He  mixed  the  aboriginal  light  with 
the  paints  upon  his  palette.  And  it  is  this  translucent 
actuality  of  colour  which  I  feel  in  the  phraseology  of 
this  writer,  in  a  way  it  is  not  easy  to  analyse.  We  can 
only  say  that  when  he  says — 

"Among  the  yellow  primroses 
He  holds  His  summer  palaces" 

we  have  an  impression,  which  it  is  the  object  of  all 
poetry  to  produce.  It  can  only  be  described  by  saying 
that  a  primrose  by  the  river's  brim  a  yellow  primrose 
is  to  him,  and  it  could  not  possibly  be  anything  more. 
And  this  almost  torrid  directness  and  distinctness  of 
tint  is  again  connected  with  another  quality  of  the 
poet  and  his  poetic  tradition:  what  many  would  call 
asceticism  alternating  with  what  many  would  call 
buffoonery.  The  colour  conventions  of  the  Middle 
Ages  were  copied  very  beautifully  by  the  school  of 
Rossetti  and  Swinburne.  But  they  lost  the  exuberance 
of  the  Gothic  and  became  a  pattern  rather  than  a 
plan;  chiefly  because  they  were  not  seriously  inspired 
by  any  of  the  enthusiasms  of  the  Middle  Ages.  Its 

[xi] 


ON  THEODORE  MAYNARD'S  POEMS 

decorative  repetitions  sometimes  became  quite  dreary 
and  artificial;  as  in  Swinburne's  unfortunate  couplet 
about  the  lilies  and  languors  of  virtue  and  the  raptures 
and  roses  of  vice.  A  little  healthy  gardening  would 
have  taught  Swinburne  that  it  takes  quite  as  much 
virtue  to  grow  a  rose  as  to  grow  a  lily.  It  might  also 
have  taught  him  that  virtue  is  never  languid,  whatever 
else  it  may  be:  and  that  even  lilies  are  not  really 
languid  so  long  as  they  are  alive.  If  such  decadents 
want  an  image  of  what  it  really  is  that  holds  up 
the  heads  of  lilies  or  any  other  growing  things,  I  can 
refer  them  to  a  couplet  in  this  little  volume,  which  is 
more  beautiful  and  more  original  and  means  a  great 
deal  more — 

"What  wilful  trees"of  any  spring 

Than  your  young  body  are  more  fair?" 

These  lines  contain  a  principle  of  life  and  mark  the 
end  of  a  pagan  sterility.  They  contain  the  secret,  not 
of  gathering  rosebuds  while  we  may,  but  of  growing 
them  when  we  choose. 

G.  K.  CHESTERTON. 


[xii] 


CONTENTS 
LAUGHS  AND  WHIFTS  OF  SONG 

PAGE 

A  SONG  OF  COLOURS 3 

CECIDIT,  CECIDIT  BABYLON  MAGNA    ....  5 

APOCALYPSE 7 

GHOSTS 9 

PROCESSIONAL 10 

A  SONG  OF  LAUGHTER 12 

BALLADE  IN  PRAISE  OF  ARUNDEL 13 

THE  TRAMP 15 

THE  WORLD'S  MISER 17 

EASTER 19 

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  ORIFLAMME 20 

To  A  GOOD  ATHEIST 21 

To  A  BAD  ATHEIST 23 

PALM  SUNDAY 25 

WHEN  I  RIDE  INTO  THE  TOWN 27 

REQUIEM 29 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE 30 

ALADDIN 31 

ADAM 32 

THE  ENGLISH  SPRING 33 

AT  THE  CRIB  .....' 35 

THE  MYSTIC 37 

To  ANY  SAINT 39 

SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 40 

[  xiii  ] 


CONTENTS 
FOLLY 

PAGE 

FOLLY 43 

THE  SHIPS 45 

LAUGHTER 47 

VOCATION 49 

BLINDNESS 50 

DRINKING  SONG 52 

THREE  TRIOLETS 54 

A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 56 

IN  MEMORIAM  F.  H.  M.      .     .     ...     .     .     .  62 

To  THE  IRISH  DEAD 63 

JOHN  REDMOND 64 

BEAUTY 65 

FAITH'S  DIFFICULTY 67 

CHRISTMAS  ON  CRUSADE 69 

THE  ASCETIC 71 

SONNET  FOR  THE  FIFTH  OF  OCTOBER  ....  75 

WARFARE 76 

TREASON 77 

THERE  WAS  AN  HOUR 78 

NOCTURNE 79 

PRIDE 80 

BALLADE  OF  SHEEP  BELLS 82 

BALLADE  OF  A  FEROCIOUS  CATHOLIC  ....  84 

DAWN 86 

SUNSET 87 

PEACE 88 

CARRION 89 

THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  CITY 91 

EDEN  RE-OPENED 93 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  HOLY  SPRING 95 

VIATICUM 97 

PUNISHMENT ^98 

AFTER  COMMUNION 99 

THE  UNIVERSAL  MOTHER 100 

THE  BOASTER 102 

UNWED 104 

WED 105 

ENGLAND 106 

LYRIC  LOVE 108 

DRUMS  OF  DEFEAT 

THE  FOOL 113 

DON  QUIXOTE 115 

IRELAND 118 

IN  MEMORIAM 119 

MATER  DESOLATA 120 

THE  STIRRUP  CUP 121 

THE  ENSIGN 122 

BALLADE  OF  ORCHARDS  .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  124 

A  GREAT  WIND 126 

BIRTHDAY  SONNET 128 

SILENCE 129 

AT  YELVERTON 130 

THE  JOY  OF  THE  WORLD 132 

GRATITUDE 135 

IN  DOMO  JOHANNIS 139 

AT  WOODCHESTER 140 

"FoR  THEY  SHALL  POSSESS  THE  EARTH"      .     .  142 

BALLADE  OF  THE  BEST  SONG  IN  THE  WORLD       .  144 

[xv] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TAIL-PIECE 146 

AVE 147 

A  REPLY 149 

JOB 151 

THE  SOIL  OF  SOLACE 153 

To  THE  DEAD 154 

SPRING,  1916 156 

THE  RETURN 157 

FULFILMENT 158 

PROPHECY 159 

THE  SINGER  TO  His  LADY 160 

CERTAINTIES 161 

FEAR 162 

CHARITY 163 

SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT 164 

CHRISTMAS  CAROL 166 

A  GARDEN  ENCLOSED 167 

THE  LOVER 169 


[  xvi  ] 


POEMS 


LAUGHS  AND  WHIFTS  OF  SONG 


A  SONG  OF  COLOURS 

GOLD  for  the  crown  of  Mary, 
Blue  for  the  sea  and  sky, 
Green  for  the  woods  and  meadows 

Where  small  white  daisies  lie, 
And  red  for  the  colour  of  Christ's  blood 
When  He  came  to  the  cross  to  die. 

These  things  the  high  God  gave  us 
And  left  in  the  world  He  made — 

Gold  for  the  hilt's  enrichment, 

And  blue  for  the  sword's  good  blade, 

And  red  for  the  roses  a  youth  may  set 
On  the  white  brows  of  a  maid. 

Green  for  the  cool,  sweet  gardens 

Which  stretch  about  the  house, 
And  the  delicate  new  frondage 

The  winds  of  Spring  arouse, 
And  red  for  the  wine  which  a  man  may  drink 

With  his  fellows  in  carouse. 

Blue  and  green  for  the  comfort 
Of  tired  hearts  and  eyes, 

[3]   ' 


A  SONG  OF  COLOURS 

And  red  for  that  sudden  hour  which  comes 

With  danger  and  great  emprise, 
And  white  for  the  honour  of  God's  throne 
When  the  dead  shall  all  arise. 

Gold  for  the  cope  and  chalice, 
For  kingly  pomp  and  pride, 
And  red  for  the  feathers  men  wear  in  their 

caps 

When  they  win  a  war  or  a  bride, 
And  red  for  the  robe  which  they  dressed 

God  in 
On  the  bitter  day  He  died. 


[41 


CECIDIT,  CECIDIT  BABYLON  MAGNA! 

THE  aimless  business  of  your  feet, 
Your  swinging  wheels  and  piston  rods, 
The  smoke  of  every  sullen  street 

Have  passed  away  with  all  your  Gods. 

For  in  a  meadow  far  from  these 
A  hodman  treads  across  the  loam, 

Bearing  his  solid  sanctities 
To  that  strange  altar  called  his  home. 

I  watch  the  tall,  sagacious  trees 
Turn  as  the  monks  do,  every  one ; 

The  saplings,  ardent  novices, 

Turning  with  them  towards  the  sun, 

That  Monstrance  held  in  God's  strong  hands, 

Burnished  in  amber  and  in  red; 
God,  His  Own  priest,  in  blessing  stands; 

The  earth,  adoring,  bows  her  head. 

The  idols  of  your  market  place, 

Your  high  debates,  where  are  they  now? 

Your  lawyers'  clamour  fades  apace — 
A  bird  is  singing  on  the  bough ! 

[5] 


CECIDIT,  CECIDIT  BABYLON  MAGNA! 

Three  fragile,  sacramental  things 

Endure,  though  all  your  pomps  shall  pass- 

A  butterfly's  immortal  wings, 
A  daisy  and  a  blade  of  grass. 


[6] 


APOCALYPSE 

"And  I  saw  a  new  heaven  and  a  new  earth:  for  the  first 
heaven  and  the  first  earth  were  passed  away." — APOC.  xxi,  i. 

SJHALL  summer  woods  where  we  have  laughed 
our  fill; 

Shall  all  your  grass  so  good  to  walk  upon; 
Each  field  which  we  have  loved,  each  little  hill 
Be  burnt  like  paper — as  hath  said  Saint  John? 

Then  not  alone  they  die !    For  God  hath  told 
How  all  His  plains  of  mingled  fire  and  glass, 

His  walls  of  hyacinth,  His  streets  of  gold, 
His  aureoles  of  jewelled  light  shall  pass, 

That  He  may  make  us  nobler  things  than  these, 
And  in  her  royal  robes  of  blazing  red 

Adorn  His  bride.    Yea,  with  what  mysteries 
And  might  and  mirth  shall  she  be  diamonded! 

And  what  new  secrets  shall  our  God  disclose; 

Or  set  what  suns  of  burnished  brass  to  flare; 
Or  what  empurpled  blooms  to  oust  the  rose; 

Or  what  strange  grass  to  glow  like  angels'  hair ! 

[7] 


APOCALYPSE 

What  pinnacles  of  silver  tracery, 

What  dizzy  rampired  towers  shall  God  devise 
Of  topaz,  beryl  and  chalcedony 

To  make  Heaven  pleasant  to  His  children's 
eyes  I 

And  in  what  cataclysms  of  flame  and  foam 
Shall  the  first  Heaven  sink — as  red  as  sin — 

When  God  hath  cast  aside  His  ancient  home 
As  far  too  mean  to  house  His  children  in! 


[8] 


GHOSTS 

SOME   dismal  nights  there  are  when  spirits 
walk 

Who  lived  and  died  unhappy  in  their  time, 
To  waste  the  air  with  vows  and  whispered  talk 

Of  tarnished  love  or  hate  or  secret  crime — 
But  now  the  moon  moves  splendid  through  the 

sky; 

The  night  is  brilliant  like  a  silver  shield; 
And  in  their  cavalcades  come  riding  by 

The  mighty  dead  of  many  a  tented  field. 
On  this  one  night  at  least  of  all  the  year 

The  lists  are  set  again,  the  lines  are  drawn; 
Again  resounds  the  clang  of  horse  and  spear; 

The  sweet  applause  of  ladies,  till  the  dawn 
Makes  glad  the  souls  of  vizored  knights — then 

they, 

Hearing  that   seneschal,   the   cock,    all  troop 
away. 


PROCESSIONAL 

SEE  how  the  plated  gates  unfold, 
How  swing  the  creaking  doors  of  brass ! 
With  drums  and  gleaming  arms,  behold 
Christ's  regal  cohorts  pass! 

Shall  Christ  not  have  His  chosen  men, 
Nor  lead  His  crested  knights  so  tall, 

Superb  upon  their  horses,  when 
The  world's  last  cities  fall? 

Ah,  no !    These  few,  the  maimed,  the  dumb, 
The  saints  of  every  lazar's  den, 

The  earth's  off-scourings — they  come 
From  desert  and  from  fen 

To  break  the  terror  of  the  night, 

Black  dreams  and  dreadful  mysteries, 

And  proud,  lost  empires  in  their  might, 
And  chains  and  tyrannies. 

There  ride  no  gold-encinctured  kings 
Against  the  potentates  of  earth; 

God  chooses  all  the  weakest  things, 
And  gives  Himself  in  birth 
[10] 


PROCESSIONAL 

With  beaten  slaves  to  draw  His  breath, 
And  sleeps  with  foxes  on  the  moor, 

With  malefactors  shares  His  death, 
Tattered  and  worn  and  poor. 

See  how  the  plated  gates  unfold, 

How  swing  the  creaking  doors  of  brass ! 

Victorious  in  defeat — behold, 
Christ  and  His  cohorts  pass! 


A   SONG   OF   LAUGHTER 

THE  stars  with  their  laughter  are  shaken; 
The  long  waves  laugh  at  sea; 
And  the  little  Imp  of  Laughter 
Laughs  in  the  soul  of  me. 

I  know  the  guffaw  of  a  tempest, 
The  mirth  of  a  blossom  and  bud — 

But  I  laugh  when   I   think  of   Cuchulain*   who 

laughed 
At  the  crows  with  their  bills  in  his  blood. 

The  mother  laughs  low  at  her  baby, 
The  bridegroom  with  joy  in  his  bride — 

And  I  think  that  Christ  laughed  when  they  took 

Him  with  staves 
On  the  night  before  He  died. 

•Pronounced  Cuhulain. 


[12] 


BALLADE  IN  PRAISE  OF  ARUNDEL 

(Made  after  a  walk  through  Surrey  and  Sussex.) 

I'VE  trudged  along  the  Pilgrims'  Way, 
And  from  St.  Martha's  Hill  looked  down 
O'er  Surrey  woods  and  fields  which  lay 

Green  in  the  sunlight.     On  the  crown 
Of  Hindhead  and  the  Punchbowl's  brink 
Of  no  good  thing  I've  been  bereaven: 
But  Arundel's  the  place  for  drink — 
The  pubs  keep  open  till  eleven. 

White  chalk-cliffs  and  the  stubborn  clay 

Are  thrown  about,  and  many  a  town 
Breaks  on  the  sight  like  breaking  day; 

But  after  all,  who  but  a  clown 
Could  Arundel  with  Midhurst  link, 

Where  men  go  dry  from  two  till  seven? 
In  Arundel  (no  truth  I'll  shrink) 

The  pubs  keep  open  till  eleven. 

A  great  cool  church  where  men  can  pray 
Secure  from  misbelieving  frown; 

And  in  the  Square,  I  beg  to  say, 

The  beer  is  strong  and  rich  and  brown. 

[13] 


BALLADE  IN  PRAISE  OF  A  RUN  DEL 

Some  poor,  misguided  people  think 

Petworth's  the  spot  that's  nearest  Heaven: 

In  Arundel  the  ale-pots  clink — 
The  pubs  keep  open  till  eleven. 

L'Envoi 

Duke,  at  the  dreadful  Judgment  Day 
Your  soul  will  surely  be  well  shriven, 

For  then  all  angel  trumps  shall  bray, 
He  kept  pubs  open  till  eleven/ 


THE   TRAMP 

MY  brothers  stay  in  cities 
To  gather  shame  and  gold, 
But  I  am  for  the  highway 
And  the  wind  upon  the  wold. 

They  take  the  train  each  morning 
To  a  dull,  bricked-up  place; 

I  trudge  the  living  country 
With  the  sunlight  on  my  face. 

I  know  no  home  or  shelter, 
No  bed  but  good  green  grass, 

Nor  any  friends  but  hedgerows 
To  greet  me  as  I  pass. 

But  though  the  road  still  calls  me 
To  places  wild  and  steep, 

I  find  the  going  heavy; 
My  eyes  are  full  of  sleep. 

The  fields  lie  all  about  me; 

The  trees  are  gay  with  sap — 
As  I  go  weary,  weary 

To  my  great  mother's  lap, 
[15] 


THE  TRAMP 

To  rest  me  with  my  mother, 
The  kindly  earth  so  brown. 
And  Lord !    But  well  contented 
I'll  lay  my  carcase  down. 


[16] 


A 


THE   WORLD'S    MISER 


MISER  with  an  eager  face 
Sees  that  each  roseleaf  is  in  place. 


He  keeps  beneath  strong  bolts  and  bars 
The  piercing  beauty  of  the  stars. 

The  colours  of  the  dying  day 

He  hoards  as  treasure — well  He  may!— 

And  saves  with  care  (lest  they  be  lost) 
The  dainty  diagrams  of  frost. 

He  counts  the  hairs  of  every  head, 
And  grieves  to  see  a  sparrow  dead. 

II 

Among  the  yellow  primroses 
He  holds  His  summer  palaces, 

And  sets  the  grass  about  them  all 
To  guard  them  as  His  spearmen  small. 
[171 


THE  WORLD'S  MISER 

He  fixes  on  each  wayside  stone 
A  mark  to  shew  it  as  His  Own, 

And  knows  when  raindrops  fall  through  air 
Whether  each  single  one  be  there, 

That  gathered  into  ponds  and  brooks 
They  may  become  His  picture-books, 

To  shew  in  every  spot  and  place 
The  living  glory  of  His  face. 


[18] 


EASTER 

AMONG  the  gay,  exultant  trees, 
Over  the  green  and  growing  grass, 
Clothed  in  immortal  mysteries, 
I  see  His  living  body  pass. 

The  catkins  fling  abroad  His  name, 
While  birds  from  every  bush  and  spray 

Strain  feathered  necks,  and  tipped  with  flame 
The  hills  all  stand  to  greet  His  day. 

Each  violet  and  bluebell  curled 

Wakes  with  the  dead  Christ's  waking  eye, 
And  like  burst  gravestones  clouds  are  hurled 

Across  the  wide  and  waiting  sky. 

And  drenched,  for  very  height  of  mirth, 
With  clean  white  tears  of  April  rain, 

Like  Mary  Magdalene  the  earth 
Finds  April's  risen  Lord  again. 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  ORIFLAMME 

THE  glory  of  the  Oriflamme, 
Or  strange,  red  flowers  of  the  South 
Hold  no  such  splendours  as  lie  hid 
In  your  sweet  mouth ! 

The  secret  honey  of  the  cliff, 
The  lure  and  laughter  of  the  sea 

Are  not  the  dear  delight  that  is 
Your  face  to  me  I 

What  wilful  trees  of  any  spring 

Than  your  young  body  are  more  fair? 

What  glamour  of  forgotten  gold 
Lurks  in  your  hair? 

The  glory  of  the  Oriflamme, 

Or  strange,  red  flowers  of  the  South 

Hold  no  such  splendours  as  lie  hid 
In  your  sweet  mouth  I 


[20] 


TO   A   GOOD   ATHEIST 

THAT  you  can  keep  your  crested  courage  high, 
And  hopeless  hope  without  a  cause,  and  wage 
Christ's  warfare,  lacking  all  the  panoply 
Of  Faith  which  shall  endure  the  end  of  age, 


You  must  be  made  of  finely  tempered  stuff, 
And  have  a  kinship  with  that  Spanish  saint, 

Who  wrote  of  his  soul's  night — it  was  enough 
That  he  should  drag  his  footsteps  tired  and 
faint 


Along  his  God-appointed  pathway.    You 
Have  stood  against  our  day  of  bitter  scorn, 

When  loudly  its  triumphant  trumpets  blew 

Contempt  of  all  God's  poor.     Had  you  been 
born 


But  in  the  time  of  Jeanne  or  Catharine, 
Whose  charity  was  as  a  sword  of  flame, 

With  those  who  drank  up  martyrdom  like  wine 
Had  stood  your  aureoled  and  ringing  name. 
[21] 


TO  A  GOOD  ATHEIST 

Yet,  when  that  secret  day  of  God  shall  break 
With  strange  and  splendid  justice  through  the 
skies, 

When  last  are  first,  then  star-ward  you  shall  take 
The  praise  and  sorrow  of  your  starry  eyes. 


[22] 


TO  A  BAD  ATHEIST 

ivho  wrote  what  he  called  a  trinity  of  meek  retorts  to  the  pre- 
ceding poem,  which  were  not  meek,  but  full  of  pride  and 
abominable  heresy. 


YOU  do  not  love  the  shadows  on  the  wall, 
Or  mists  that  flee  before  a  blowing  wind, 
Or  Gothic  forests,  or  light  aspen  leaves, 
Or  skies  that  melt  into  a  dreamy  sea. 
In  the  hot,  glaring  noontide  of  your  mind 
(I  have  your  word  for  it)  there  is  no  room 
For  anything  save  sawdust,  sun  and  sand. 

No  monkish  flourishes  will  do  for  you; 

Your  life  must  be  set  down  in  black  and  white. 

The  quiet  half-light  of  the  abbey  close, 

The  cunning  carvings  of  a  chantry  tomb, 

The  leaden  windows  pricked  with  golden  saints — 

All  these  are  nothing  to  your  ragtime  soul ! 

Yet,  since  you  are  a  solemn  little  chap, 
In  spite  of  all  your  blasphemy  and  booze, 
That  dreadful  sword  of  satire  which  you  shake 
Hurts  no  hide  but  your  own, — you  cannot  use 
A  weapon  which  is  bigger  than  yourself. 

[23] 


TO  A  BAD  ATHEIST 

Yet  some  there  were  who  rode  all  clad  in  mail,— 
With  crosses  blazoned  on  their  mighty  shields, 
Roland  who  blew  his  horn  against  the  Moor, 
Richard  who  charged  for  Christ  at  Ascalon, 
Louis  a  pilgrim  with  his  chivalry, 
And   Blessed  Jeanne   who   saved  the   crown   of 

France — 
Pah !  you  may  keep  your  whining  Superman ! 


[24] 


PALM  SUNDAY 

THE  grey  hairs  of  Caiaphas 
Shall  know  the  truth  to-day, 
For  kingly,  riding  on  an  ass, 
The  Truth  has  come  his  way. 

(A  thornbush  grows  upon  the  hill, 
And  Golgotha  is  empty  still!) 

Caiaphas  waxes  eloquent 

On  tittle  and  on  jot, 
But  when  they  cry  "Hosanna  !" 

Caiaphas  answers  not. 

(A  thornbush  grows  upon  the  hill, 
And  Golgotha  is  empty  still!) 

In  the  temple  of  Caiaphas 

Stand  two  gold  seraphim — 
They  do  not  worship  Christ  nor  shout 

As  the  grey  stones  shout  for  Him. 

(A  thornbush  grows  upon  the  hillf 
And  Golgotha  is  empty  still!) 

[25] 


PALM  SUNDAY 

The  vestments  of  Caiaphas 

With  gold  and  silver  shone — 
They  would  get  soiled  if  he  cast  them  down 

For  the  ass  to  walk  upon. 

(A  thornbush  grows  upon  the  hill, 
And  Golgotha  is  empty  still!) 

The  religion  of  Caiaphas 

Is  very  spick  and  span, 
It  does  not  love  the  ill-bred  mob, 

The  homespun  Son  of  Man! 

(A  thornbush  grows  upon  the  hillt 
And  Golgotha  is  empty  still!) 

The  dark  soul  of  Caiaphas 

Is  full  of  sin  and  pride; 
It  does  not  know  the  splendour 

Or  the  triumph  of  that  ride ! 

(A  thornbush  grows  upon  the  hillt 
And  Golgotha  is  empty  still!) 

[26] 


WHEN  I  RIDE  INTO  THE  TOWN 

WHEN  I  go  riding  into  the  town, 
When  I  ride  into  the  town, 
I  fill  my  skin  at  the  nearest  inn 

When  I  ride  into  the  town. 
Oh,  what  is  there  then  to  trouble  about? 
There  are  no  such  things  as  despair  and  doubt- 
For  when  ale  goes  in  the  truth  comes  out, 
When  I  ride  into  the  town  I 


When  I  go  riding  out  of  the  town, 

When  I  ride  out  of  the  town, 
I  have  my  men  behind  me  then 
When  I  ride  out  of  the  town ; 
Halberd,  battle-axe,  culverin,  bow, 
Four  hundred  strong  as  out  we  go, 
Four  hundred  yeomen  to  meet  the  foe, 
When  I  ride  out  of  the  town ! 


When  I  ride  into  the  Town  of  Death — 
That  strange  and  unknown  town! — 

It  will  not  be  all  cap-a-pie, 

But  with  sword  and  lance  laid  down. 

[27] 


WHEN  I  RIDE  INTO  THE  TOWN 

Then  may  our  Lady  beside  me  stand; 
Saint  Michael  guard  at  my  good  right  hand — 
God  rest  my  soul  and  the  souls  of  my  band, 
When  we  ride  into  the  Town  1 


[28] 


REQUIEM 

WHEN  my  last  song  is  sung  and  I  am  dead 
And  laid  away  beneath  the  kindly  clay, 
Set  a  square  stone  above  my  dreamless  head, 

And  sign  me  with  the  cross  and  signing  say: 
"Here  lieth  one  who  loved  the  steadfast  things 

Of  his  own  land,  its  gladness  and  its  grace, 
The  stubbled  fields,  the  linnets'  gleaming  wings, 

The  long,  low  gables  of  his  native  place, 
Its  gravelled  paths,  and  the  strong  wind  that  rends 

The  boughs  about  the  house,  the  hearth's  red 

glow, 
The  surly,  slow  good-fellowship  of  friends, 

The  humour  of  the  men  he  used  to  know, 
And  all  their  swinging  choruses  and  mirth" — 
Then  turn  aside  and  leave  my  dust  in  earth. 


[29] 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE1 

MY  friends,  I  may  no  longer  ride  with  you 
To  bear  a  sword  in  your  brave  company, 
Or  follow  our  poor  tattered  flag  which  knew 
No  shame  or  slur — or  any  victory. 

But  this  at  least,  with  courage  and  with  mirth 
We  starveling  poets  and  enthusiasts 

Have  shirked  no  battle  for  the  stricken  earth 
Against  its  tyrants'  spears  and  arbalests. 

And  though  I  go  to  guard  another  sign, 

These  things,  please  God,  shall  stand  and  never 
slip — 

(O  friends  of  mine,  O  splendid  friends  of  mine!) 
Honour  and  Freedom  and  Goodfellowship, 

On  which  and  on  your  ragged  chivalry 

I  always  think  with  proud  humility. 


[30] 


ALADDIN 

THOUGH  worlds  all  melt  away  in  mist, 
The  Heavens'  slender  filament, 
The  orange  and  the  amethyst, 
Are  left  me — and  I  am  content ! 

I  stand  serene  amid  the  shocks, 
Upheavals,  cataclysmic  dust, 
The  binding  fires,  the  falling  rocks, 
The  withering  of  life  and  lust. 

This  little  burnished  lamp  I  hold 

Has  shattered  the  eternities; 
The  glamour  of  all  unknown  gold, 

The  ancient  puissance  of  the  seas, 

The  sunlight  and  the  love  of  God 

Are  cast  in  chains  beneath  my  feet — 

For  at  my  first  behest  this  sod 
Becomes  a  cosmos,  new,  complete, 

Instinct  with  unimagined  power, 
In  colour  radiant  pole  to  pole, 

The  sudden  glory  of  an  hour, 
The  epic  moment  of  my  soul  I 

[31] 


ADAM 

I    SAW  a  red  sky  boding  woe, 
The  gleam  of  an  eternal  sword, 
And  heard  the  voice  that  bid  me  go 
From  the  green  garden  of  the  Lord. 

I  knew  the  prick  of  Destiny, 

The  scorn  of  the  relentless  stars; 

The  very  grass  looked  down  on  me — 
The  first  of  all  the  Avatars ! 

Each  flower  seemed  to  see  my  shame; 

Each  bird  as  though  insulted  flew 
Before  my  hateful  face — my  name 

Was  blown  about  the  whole  world 
through  1 

Even  my  house  with  its  red  roof, 

Dear  as  it  is,  looks  strange  and  odd; 

My  garden  beds  are  more  aloof 
From  me  than  is  my  angry  God! 


[32] 


THE  ENGLISH  SPRING 

I    LOVE  each  inch  of  English  earth; 
I  love  each  stone  upon  the  way — 
Whether  in  Winter's  sullen  dearth, 

When  the  soil  is  trodden  into  clay — 
In  Autumn  ripeness,  or  the  mirth 
Of  a  Summer's  day. 

Something  peculiar  to  our  land 
Is  hid  in  even  the  greyest  sky, 

When  stiff  and  stark  the  tall  trees  stand 
And  the  wind  is  high. 

But  this  one  season  of  our  year 

Is  so  peculiarly  an  English  thing, 
When  the  woolly  catkins  first  appear, 
.    And  yellow  burgeoning 
Upon  the  little  coppice  here — 
This  native  Spring 

Which  comes  to  us  so  suddenly, 

Blown  over  the  hills  from  the  fruitful 
South ; 

Full  of  the  laughter  of  the  laughing  sea 
She  comes  with  singing  mouth. 

[331 


THE  ENGLISH  SPRING 

The  cool,  sweet  Wiltshire  meadows  lie 
With  buttercups  from  end  to  end; 

In  secret  woods  are  small  blooms,  shy 
Bluebells  the  good  gods  send. 

There  is  no  cloud  that  wanders  by 
But  is  my  friend. 

And  now  the  gorse  is  gold  again; 

The  violet  hides  beneath  the  leaves; 
And  quickened  by  thin  April  rain 

The  debonair  young  sapling  weaves 
His  coat  of  lightest  green ;  again 

Birds  chirp  at  the  eaves. 

Each  hidden  brook  and  waterfall, 

Each  tiny  daisy  in  the  sun 
Calls  to  my  heart — the  hedgerows  all 

So  full  of  twigs,  they  call,  each  one; 
And  with  insistent  voices  call 

The  roads  where  the  wild  flowers  run. 

O  set  with  grass  and  the  English  hedge 
Are  the  long,  white  roads  which  wind 

and  wind — 

Roads  which  reach  to  the  world's  edge, 
Where  the  world  is  left  behind. 
[34] 


AT  THE  CRIB 

AGAIN  the  royalties  are  shed, 
Disdiademed  the  kingly  head, 
He  lies  again — ah,  very  small! — 
Among  the  cattle  in  the  stall, 
Or  in  His  slender  mother's  arms 
Is  snuggled  up  from  baby  harms. 

The  Tower  of  Ivory  leans  down 
From  Paradise's  topmost  crown; 
The  House  of  Gold  on  earth  takes  root; 
From  Jesse-comes  a  saving  shoot, 
For  Mary  gives  (O  manifold 
Her  courtesies!)  that  we  may  hold 
Our  little  Lord's  poor  fragile  hands 
And  feet,  the  guerdon  of  all  lands. 

No  fool  need  fail  to  enter  in 
The  guarded  Heaven  we  strive  to  win, 
Or  miss  upon  a  casual  street 
The  fiery  impress  of  His  feet, 
But  touch  with  every  stone  and  sod 
The  extended  fingers  of  our  God, 
[35] 


AT  THE  CRIB 

And  see  in  twigs  of  the  stiff  hedgerows, 
Or  in  the  woods  where  quiet  grows 
Among  the  naked  Winter  trees, 
A  thousand  times  these  mysteries : 
The  branching  arms  with  Christly  fruit, 
The  thorns  which  bruise  His  head  and  foot. 

No  more  with  silver  shrilly  blown 
He  treads  a  conqueror,  but,  flown 
With  swift  and  silent  whitening  wings, 
He  comes  enwrapped  in  baby  things. 
Our  God  adventures  everywhere 
Beneath  the  cool  and  Christmas  air, 
And  setteth  still  His  candid  star 
Where  Mary  and  her  baby  are  I 


THE  MYSTIC 

WHEN  all  my  long  and  weary  work  is  done 
(Toiling  both  soon  and  late,  by  candle- 
light, 

Sewing  and  sewing  while  my  eyes  can  see) 
I  lay  my  glasses  by  and  watch  the  walls — 
The  plaster  off  in  patches,  stained  with  smoke — 
Melt  as  a  hoary  mist  and  flee  away. 
Then  through  the  splendour  of  the  evening  skies, 
Along  its  star-lit  paths,  past  pearl-white  clouds 
I  hasten  till  I  reach  the  region  where 
God's  holy  city  like  a  virgin  keeps 
Its  spotless  tryst,  forever  night  and  day. 

I  do  not  linger  here,  but  take  my  way 
To  Him  who  sits  among  the  Seraphim; 
And  He  who  knows  I  am  a  poor  old  wife, 
With  naught  of  wit  or  wealth  that  I  can  bring, 
And  that  my  hands  are  hardened  by  my  toil — 
Sees  that  'tis  I  that  need  Him  most  of  all. 
Yea,  God  will  have  the  music  hushed   (for  I 
Am  growing  somewhat  deaf)  and  we  will  talk 
Of  many  things,  as  friend  may  talk  with  friend. 

Ah,  I  have  looked,  r,nd  in  the  dear  Lord's  face 
(More  lined  with  care  than  any  earthly  man's) 
[37] 


402647 


THE  MYSTIC 

Seen  that  He  suffers  too,  and  understands 
How  hard  and  late  I  work  to  keep  the  wolf 
Outside  my  door,  and  bring  my  children  up 
To  serve  Him  always,  and  to  keep  them  clean 
In  body,  heart  and  mind.  .  .  . 

At  the  sun's  call, 

Working  with  all  my  strength  from  early  dawn, 
Through  the  long  day,  and  then  by  candle-light 
Sewing  on  buttons  while  my  eyes  can  see, 
I  know  the  glory  of  God's  gracious  face, 
And  at  His  touch  my  weary  hands  grow  strong, 
Hearing  His  voice  my  heart  is  glad  and  gay. 


[38] 


TO  ANY  SAINT 

EFORE  the  choirs  of  angels  burst  to  song, 
In  night  and  loneliness  your  way  you  trod — 
O  valiant  heart,  O  weary  feet  and  strong, 
There  are  no  easy  by-paths  unto  God. 

Darkness  there  was,  thick  darkness  all  around; 

Nor  spoken  word,  nor  hand  to  touch  you  knew, 
But  One  who  walked  the  self-same  stony  ground 

And  shared  your  dereliction  there  with  you. 

O  valiant  heart!    O  fixed,  undaunted  will! 

While  all  the  heavens  hung  like  brass  above, 
You  faltered  not,  but  steadfast  journeyed  still 

Upon  the  road  of  sainthood  to  your  Love. 

And  was  not  it  reward  exceeding  great 

To  kiss  at  last  with  passionate  lips  His  side, 

His  hands,  His  feet?    O  pomp!     O  regal  state! 
O  crown  of  life  He  gives  unto  His  bride ! 

Lovers  there  are  with  roses  chapleted, 

But  more  than  theirs  is  your  Lord's  loveliness; 

Your  Love  is  crowned  with  thorns  upon  His  head, 

And  pain  and  sorrow  woven  is  His  dress. 

[39] 


SUNSET  ON  THE  DESERT 

AS  some  priest  turns,  his  ritual  all  done, 
And  stretching  hands  above  the  kneeling 

crowd, 

Who  rapt  and  silent,  wait  with  heads  all  bowed 
For  the  last  holy  words  of  benison — 
"Now  God  be  with  thee,  ever  Three  in  One" — 
So  turns  the  sun,  though  all  reluctantly. 
One  thrilling  moment  comes  to  shrub  and  tree; 
Expectant  stillness  falls;  then  dark  and  dun 

The  silhouettes  of  sphinx  and  pyramid 
Gaze  at  the  last  deep  amber  after-glow; 

The  little  stars  peep  down  between  the  palms; 
And  all  the  ghosts  that  garish  daylight  hid 

Are  quickened — Isis  with  the  breasts  of  snow 
And  Antony  with  Egypt  in  his  arms. 


[40] 


FOLLY 


FOLLY 

SHALL  I  not  wear  my  motley 
And  flaunt  my  bladder  of  green 
Before  the  earls  and  the  bishops 

And  the  laughing  king  and  queen; 
Though  hunger  is  in  my  belly 
And  jests  my  lips  between? 

Men  listen  a  moment  idly 
To  the  foolishness  I  sing — 

But  my  words  are  sharp  and  bitter 
In  savour  and  in  sting, 

And  harder  than  mail  in  battle 
Where  the  heavy  maces  swing. 

For  full  of  the  sap  of  folly 

Grow  the  branches  of  the  Creed, 

The  fine  adventurous  folly 
God  gave  us  in  our  need, 

When  He  yielded  up  to  scornful  death 
The  human  brows  that  bleed. 

They  nailed  the  son  of  Mary 
On  a  gibbet  straight  and  tall; 

[43] 


FOLLY 

But  the  eagles  of  the  Roman 
Were  struck  in  Caesar's  hall, 

And  the  veil  of  the  Holy  of  Holies 
Was  rent  in  the  temple  wall. 

Wiser  than  sage  or  prophet, 
Or  the  pedant  of  the  school, 

Than  lord  or  abbot  or  priest  or  prince 
Who  over  the  nations  rule, 

Are  the  cap  and  bells  and  the  motley 
And  the  laughter  of  the  fool  I 

February  izth,  1918. 


[44] 


THE  SHIPS 

THE  bending  sails  shall  whiten  on  the  sea, 
Guided  by  hands  and  eyes  made  glad  for 

home, 

With  graven  gems  and  cedar  and  ebony 
From  Babylon  and  Rome. 

For  here  a  lover  cometh  as  to  his  bride, 
And  there  a  merchant  to  his  utmost  price — 

Oh,  hearts  will  leap  to  see  the  good  ships  ride 
Safely  to  Paradise! 

And  this  that  cuts  the  waves  with  brazen  prow 
Hath  heard  the  blizzard  groaning  through  her 
spars ; 

Battered  with  honour  swings  she  nobly  now 
Back  from  her  bitter  wars. 

And  that  doth  bring  her  silver  work  and  spice, 
Peacocks  and  apes  from  Tarshish,  and  from 

Tyre 

Great  cloaks  of  velvet  stiff  with  gold  device, 
Coloured  with  sunset  fire.  .  .  . 
[45] 


THE  SHIPS 

And  one,  serenely  through  the  golden  gate, 
Shall  sail  and  anchor  by  the  ultimate  shore, 

Who,  plundered  of  her  gold  by  pirate  Fate, 
Still  keeps  her  richer  store 

Unrifled  when  her  perilous  journey  ends 

And  the  strong  cable  holds  her  safe  again: 

Laughter  and  memories  and  the  songs  of  friends 
And  the  sword  edge  of  pain. 

June  1917. 


[46] 


LAUGHTER 

OH,  not  a  poet  lives  but  knows 
The  laughing  beauty  of  the  rose, 
The  heyday  humour  of  the  noon, 
The  solemn  smiling  of  the  moon, — 
When  night,  as  happy  as  a  lover, 
Doth  kiss  and  kiss  the  earth,  and  cover 
His  face  with  all  her  tender  hair. 

Sweet  bride  and  bridegroom  everywhere, 
And  mothers,  who  so  softly  sing 
Upon  their  babies'  slumbering, 
Know  joy  upon  their  lips,  and  laughter 
At  Joy's  heels  that  comes  tumbling  after. 

But  who  shall  shake  his  sides  to  hear 
That  sacred  laughter,  fraught  with  fear, 
That  laughter  strange  and  mystical — 
The  hero  laughing  in  his  fall; 
Whene'er  a  man  goes  out  alone, 
Is  thrown  and  is  not  overthrown? 

The  fates  shall  never  bow  the  head 
That  irony  hath  comforted, 
Nor  thrust  him  down  with  shameful  scars 
Who  towers  above  the  reeling  stars. 

[47] 


LAUGHTER 

Thus  God,  Who  shaketh  roof  and  rafter 

Of  highest  heaven  with  holy  laughter; 

Who  made  fantastic,  foolish  trees 

Shadow  the  floors  of  tropic  seas, 

Where  finny  gargoyles,  goggle-eyed, 

Grin  monstrously  beneath  the  tide; 

Who  made  for  some  titanic  joke 

Out  of  the  acorn  grow  the  oak; 

From  buried  seed  and  riven  rocks, 

Brings  death  and  life — a  paradox! 

Who  breaks  great  Kingdoms,  and  their  Kings, 

Upon  the  knees  of  helpless  things.  .  .  . 

So  flesh  the  Word  was  made  Who  gave 

His  body  to  a  human  grave, 

While  devils  gnashed  their  teeth  at  loss 

To  see  Him  triumph  on  the  cross.  .  .  . 

Thus  God,  Who  shaketh  roof  and  rafter 
Of  highest  heaven  with  holy  laughter! 

October  \\th,  1917. 


[48] 


VOCATION 

THOUGH  God  has  put  me  in  the  world  to 
praise 
Each  beetle's  burnished  wing,  each  blade  of 

grass, 
To  track  the  manifold  and  marvellous  ways 

Whereon  His  bright  creative  footsteps  pass; 

To  glory  in  the  poplars'  summer  green, 

To  guard  the  sunset's  glittering  hoard  of  gold, 

To  gladden  when  the  fallen  leaves  careen 
On  fairy  keels  upon  the  windy  wold. 

For  this,  for  this,  my  eager  mornings  broke, 
For  this  came  sunshine  and  the  lonely  rain, 

For  this  the  stiff  and  sleepy  woods  awoke 
And  every  hawthorn  hedge  along  the  lane. 

For  this  God  gave  me  all  my  joy  of  verse 
That  I  might  shout  beneath  exultant  skies, 

And  meet,  as  one  delivered  from  a  curse, 
The  pardon  and  the  pity  in  your  eyes. 


[49] 


BLINDNESS 

OPEN  the  casement!     From  my  room, 
Perched  high  upon  this  dizzy  spire, 
My  blinded  eyes  behold  the  bloom 
Of  gardens  in  their  golden  fire. 

Oh  deep,  mysterious  recompense — 

Time  static  to  my  ardent  gaze! 
No  longer  mortal  veils  of  sense 

Conceal  the  blissful  ray  of  rays! 

Fantastic  forests  toss  their  heads 
For  my  immortal  youth;  on  grass 

Brighter  than  jewels  do  the  reds 
Of  riotous  summer  roses  pass. 

I  traffic  in  abysmal  seas, 

And  dive  for  pearls  and  coloured  shells, 
Where,  over  seaweeds  tall  as  trees, 

The  waters  boom  like  tenor  bells; 

Where  bearded  goblin-fish  and  sharks, 
With  fins  as  large  as  eagles'  wings, 

Throw  phosphorescent  trails  of  sparks 

Which  glitter  on  drowned  Spaniards'  rings. 
[50] 


BLINDNESS 

From  star  to  star  I  pilgrimage, 
Undaunted  in  ethereal  space; 

And  laugh  because  the  sun  in  rage 
Shoots  harmless  arrows  at  my  face. 

For  even  if  the  skies  should  flare 
In  God's  last  catastrophic  blaze, 

My  happy,  blinded  eyes  would  stare 
Only  upon  the  ray  of  rays. 

January  2oth,  1918. 


[51] 


DRINKING  SONG 

WHEN  Horace  wrote  his  noble  verse, 
His  brilliant,  glowing  line, 
He  must  have  gone  to  bed  the  worse 

For  good  Falernian  wine. 
No  poet  yet  could  praise  the  rose 
In  verse  that  so  serenely  flows 
Unless  he  dipped  his  Roman  nose 
In  good  Falernian  wine. 

Shakespeare  and  Jonson  too 
Drank  deep  of  barley  brew — 
Drank  deep  of  barley  brew,  my  boys, 
Drank  deep  of  barley  brew! 

When  Alexander  led  his  men 

Against  the  Persian  King, 
He  broached  a  hundred  hogsheads,  then 

They  drank  like  anything. 
They  drank  by  day,  they  drank  by  night, 
And  when  they  marshalled  for  the  fight 
Each  put  a  score  of  foes  to  flight — 

They  drank  like  anything! 

[52] 


DRINKING  SONG 

No  warrior  worth  his  salt 
But  quaffs  the  mighty  malt — 
But  quaffs  the  mighty  malt,  my  boys, 
But  quaffs  the  mighty  malt! 

When  Patrick  into  Ireland  went 

The  works  of  God  to  do, 
It  was  his  excellent  intent 

To  teach  men  how  to  brew. 
The  holy  saint  had  in  his  train 
A  man  of  splendid  heart  and  brain — 
A  brewer  was  this  worthy  swain — 

To  teach  men  how  to  brew. 

The  snakes  he  drove  away 
Were  teetotallers  they  say — 
Teetotallers  they  say,  my  boys, 
Teetotallers  they  say! 

September  ^oth,  1917. 


[531 


THREE  TRIOLETS 


OF  AN  IMPROBABLE  STORY 

I    HEARD  a  story  from  an  oak 
As  I  was  walking  in  the  wood- 
I,  of  the  stupid  human-folk, 
I  heard  a  story  from  an  oak. 
Though  larches  mto  laughter  broke 

I  hardly  think  I  understood. 
I  heard  a  story  from  an  oak 
As  I  was  walking  in  the  wood. 


II 

OF  DEPLORABLE  SENTIMENTS 

I  wouldn't  sell  my  noble  thirst 
For  half-a-dozen  bags  of  gold; 

I'd  like  to  drink  until  I  burst. 

I  wouldn't  sell  my  noble  thirst 

For  lucre  filthy  and  accurst — 

Such  treasures  can't  be  bought  and  sold ! 

I  wouldn't  sell  my  noble  thirst 

For  half-a-dozen  bags  of  gold. 
[54] 


THREE  TRIOLETS 

III 
OF  LOVE  AND  LAUGHTER 

You  scattered  joy  about  my  way 

And  filled  my  lips  with  love  and  laughter 
In  white  and  yellow  fields  of  May 
You  scattered  joy  about  my  way. 
Though  Winter  come  with  skies  of  grey 

And  grisly  death  come  stalking  after, 
You  scattered  joy  about  my  way 

And  filled  my  lips  with  love  and  laughter 


1551 


A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 

IN  Italic  a  mony  yeer  ago 
There  lived  a  little  childe  Catharine, 
With  yonge,  merrie  herte  clere  as  snow. 

From  hir  first  youthful  hour  she  did  entwyne 
Roses  both  whyt  and  reed — Godis  columbine 
She  was.    And  for  hir  holy  gaiety 
Was  by  hir  neighbours  clept  Euphrosyne. 

Ech  stepp  she  took  upon  hir  fadirs  staires, 
Kneeling  she  did  an  Ave  Mary  say; 

With  ful  devocioun  she  seid  hir  prayers 
Ere  that  she  wente  forth  ech  day  to  play; 
Our  Blessid  Queen  was  in  hir  thought  alway- 

Our  Modir  Mary  whose  humility 

Hath  raised  hir  to  hevines  mageste. 

When  only  sevin  was  this  childes  age 
She  vowed  hirself  to  sweet  virginity, 

Forsweering  eny  erthly  marriage, 

That  she  the  clene  bride  of  Crist  schuld  be, 
Who  on  the  heavy  cross  ful  cruelly 

The  Jewe's  nailed,  hevin  to  open  wide — 

Crist  for  hir  husebond,  she  Cristes  bride. 
[56] 


A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 

Swich  was  the  litle  innocentes  intent, 

Hirself  unspotted  from  the  world  to  kepe, 

Al  hidden  in  hir  fadirs  hous  she  went. 
Whether  in  waking  or  in  pure  sleep 
She  builded  hir  a  close  celle  deep — 

Where  Lorde  Criste  colde  walk  with  hir, 

And  hold  alway  His  sweete  convers  there. 

So  ful  she  was  of  gentil  charity, 

She  didde  tend  upon  the  sick  ech  day; 

To  beggars  in  their  grete  necessity 

She  gave  hir  cloke  and  petticoat  away; 
To  no  poor  wighte  did  she  saye  nay — 

And  when  reproved  merr'ly  she  spoke, 

"God  loveth  charity  more  than  my  cloke." 

An  olde  widow  lay  al  striken  sore 

With  leprose,  that  dreed  and  foul  disease; 
And  to  hir  (filled  to  the  herte  core 

With  love  of  God)   that  she  schuld  bring  hir 

ease 

Did  Catharine  come,  nor  did  hit  hir  displese 
That  she  schuld  wash  the  woundes  tenderly, 
And  bind  hem  up  for  Godde's  charity. 

[571 


A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 

And  though  the  pacient  waxed  querulous, 
The  blessid  seinte  wearied  neer  a  whit, 
For  hir  upbrading  tong  so  slanderous, 
Nor  even  when  upon  hir  hande's  lit 
The  leprose  corrupt  and  foul — for  hit 
Is  nothing  to  the  shame  Godde  bore 
When   nailes   and    speares    His    smoothe   flesch 
y-tore. 

But  now  behold  a  woundrous  miracle! 

For  al  that  Seinte  Catharine  colde  do, 
Hir  pacient  died  and  was  y-carried  wel 

Unto  hir  grave  by  stout  men  and  true. 

When  they  upon  hir  corse  the  cloddes  threw, 
Then  new  as  eny  childes  gan  to  shine 
The  shrivvelled  handes  of  holy  Catharine! 

There  lived  there  a  youth  clept  Nicholas, 
Who  made  in  that  citee  seditioun, 

Causing  a  grete  riot  in  that  place, 
So  that  the  magistrates  of  the  toun 
Hent  him  and  cast  him  in  a  strong  prisoun; 

And  thilke  wighte  they  anon  did  try, 

And  for  his  sin  condemned  him  to  die. 
[58] 


A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 

And  Catharine  y-waxed  piteous 

To  see  him  brought  unto  this  sorry  case, 

And  went  to  him  unto  the  prisoun  hous 
To  move  his  soul  to  Jhesu  Cristes  grace. 
So  yong  he  was  and  fresh  and  faire  of  face, 

Hir  herte  moved  was  as  to  a  son, 

And  he  by  hir  sweet,  gracious  wordes  was  won. 

That  for  his  deth  he  made  a  good  accord, 
And  was  y-shriven  wel  of  his  assoyl, 

And  with  a  humble  soul  received  our  Lord 

From  the  prestes  hands.     His  herte  that  did 

boil 
But  little  whyles  ago — wr.s  freed  from  toil, 

And  fixed  on  our  Lorde's  precious  blood, 

Which  for  our  sak  He  spilled  on  the  rood. 

And  when  he  came  to  executioun, 
No  feer  had  he  nor  eny  bitter  care, 

But  walked  among  the  guardes  thurgh  the  toun 
In  joy  so  hye  as  if  he  trod  on  air. 
Seint  Catharine  she  was  y-waiting  there 

To  cheer  his  soul  against  the  dreedful  end, 

When  unto  God  his  soul  at  last  most  wend. 

[59] 


A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 

And  there  thilke  holy  virgin  welcomed  him ; 
"Come,  Nicholas,"  she  said,  "my  sonne  deere. 

The  boul  of  glorious  life  is  at  the  brim- 
Come,  Nicholas — your  nuptials  are  neer; 
The  bridegroom  calleth,  be  you  of  good  cheer." 

And  whyl  they  made  redy,  on  hir  brest 

She  kept  the  hed  of  Nicholas  at  rest. 

And  when  that  al  in  ordre  had  been  set, 
She  stretched  out  his  nekke  tenderly, 

"This  day  your  soules  bridegroom  shal  be  met. 
Hark!  how  He  calleth,  sweet  and  winsomely." 
And  Nicholas  spak  to  hir  ful  of  glee — 

"Jhesu"  and  "Catharine"  the  wordes  he  seid; 

Then  fel  the  ax  and  severed  off  his  hed. 


And  even  as  his  bloody  hed  did  fall, 

She  caught  hit  in  her  lap  and  handes  faire, 

Nor  recked  that  the  blood  was  over  al 
Hir  robes,  but  she  kissed  hit  sitting  there, 
And  smoothed  doun  the  rough  and  ragged  hair. 

God  wot  that  grete  peace  was  in  hir  herte 

That  Nicholas  in  hevin  had  found  his  part. 
[60] 


A  NEW  CANTERBURY  TALE 

O  holy  Catharine,  pray  for  us  then, 
Be  to  our  soules  a  modir  and  a  frend; 

We  are  poor  wandering  and  sinful  men, 

And  al  unstable  through  the  world  we  wend. 
Pray  for  us,  Catharine,  unto  the  end, 

That  filled  with  thy  grete  charity 

In  Godde's  love  we  schulde  live  and  die. 


IN  MEMORIAM  F.  H.  M. 
KILLED  IN  ACTION,  APRIL  9111,  1917 

THOUGH  now  we  see,  as  through  the  battle 
smoke, 

The  image  of  your  young  uplifted  face 
Surprised  by  death,  and  broken  as  it  broke 

The  hearts  of  those  who  loved  your  eager  grace, 
Your  noble  air  and  magnanimity — 

A  summer  perfect  in  its  flowers  and  leaves, 
Brave  promises  of  fruitfulness  to  be, 

Which    now   no    hand   may   bind    in    goodly 

sheaves — 
No  hand  but  God's.  .  .  .  Yet  your  remembered 

ways, 

Your  eyes  alight  with  gentleness  and  mirth, 
The  lovely  honour  of  your  shortened  days, 

A  new  grave  gladness  on  the  furrowed  earth 
Shall  sow  for  us,  a  new  pride  wide  and  deep — 
And  we  shall  see  the  corn — and  reap,  and  reap. 


162] 


TO  THE  IRISH  DEAD 

YOU  who  have  died  as  royally  as  kings, 
Have  seen  with  eyes  ablaze  with  beauty, 

eyes 

Nor  gold  nor  ease  nor  comfort  could  make  wise, 
The  glory  of  imperishable  things. 

Despite  your  shame  and  loneliness  and  loss — 
Your  broken  hopes,  the  hopes  that  shall  not 

cease, 
Endure  in  dreams  as  terrible  as  peace; 

Your  naked  folly  nailed  upon  the  cross 

Has  given  us  more  than  bread  unto  our  dearth 
And  more  than  water  to  our  aching  drouth; 
Though  death  has  been  as  wormwood  in  your 
mouth 

Your  blood  shall  fructify  the  barren  earth. 

August  1 1///,  1917. 


[63] 


JOHN  REDMOND 

SHALL  it  be  told  in  tragic  song  and  story 
Of  two  who  went  embittered  all  their  days, 
Two  lovely  Queens  divided  in  their  ways 
Until  their  hearts  grew  hard,  their  tresses  hoary? 
Or  shall  the  flying  wings  of  oratory 

Of  him  who  bore  a  great  hope  on  his  face 
Bring  from  the  grave  reunion  to  the  grace 
That  men  call  Ireland  and  to  England's  glory? 

Courageous  soul,  not  yet  the  work  is  ended: 
The  perfect  pact  you  never  lived  to  see, 

The  peace  between  the  warring  sister,  mended 
Must  of  your  patient  labours  come  to  be, 

When  in  a  noise  of  trumpets  loud  and  splendid 

The  Gael  hears  blown  the  name  of  liberty. 

March  8/A,  1918. 


BEAUTY 

I 

(RELATIVE} 

HOW  many  are  the  forms  that  beauty  shows ; 
To  what  dim  shrines  of  sweet,  forgotten 

art 
She   calls;   on   what  wide  seas  her   strong  wind 

blows 
The  proud  and  perilous  passion  of  the  heart  1 

How  many  are  the  forms  of  her  decay; 

The  blood  that  stains  the  dying  of  the  sun, 
The  love  and  loveliness  that  pass  away 

Like  roses'  petals  scattered  one  by  one. 

But  there  shall  issue  through  the  ivory  gate, 
Amid  a  mist  of  dreams,  one  dream-come-true, 

Beauty  immortal,  mighty  of  estate, 
The  beauty  that  a  poet  loved  in  you; 

The  goodness  God  has  set  as  aureole 

Upon  the  naked  meekness  of  your  soul. 

July  22nd,  1917. 

[65] 


BEAUTY 

ii 
(ABSOLUTE) 

WHO  shall  take  Beauty  in  her  citadel? 
Her  gates  will  splinter  not  to  battering 

days; 

Her  slender  spires  can  bear  the  onslaught  well. 
Shall  any  track  her  through  her  secret  ways 
To  snare  the  pinions  of  the  golden  bird? 

A  feather  falling  through  the  jewelled  air, 
Only  the  echo  of  a  lovely  word — 

Nowhere  her  being  is,  and  everywhere. 

But  one  may  come  at  last  through  many  woes 
And  pain  and  hunger  to  his  resting  place, 

The  watered  garden  of  the  Mystic  Rose, 
The  contemplation  of  the  Bruised  Face — 

The  quest  of  all  his  wild,  adventurous  pride; 

And,  seeing  Beauty,  shall  be  satisfied. 

July  2<)th,  1917. 


[66] 


FAITH'S  DIFFICULTY 

NOT  these  appal 
The  soul  tip-toeing  to  belief: 
The  ribald  call, 
The  last  black  anguish  of  the  thief; 

The  fellowship 
Of  publican  and  Pharisee, 

The  harlot's  lip 
Passionate  with  humility; 

Or  the  feet  kisSed 
By  her  who  was  the  Magdalen — 

The  sensualist 
Is  one  among  a  world  of  men! 

Oh,  I  can  look 
Upon  another's  drama;  read 

As  in  a  book 
Things  unrelated  to  my  need; 

Give  faith's  assent 
To  that  abysmal  love  outpoured — 

But  why  was  rent 

Thy  seamless  coat  for  me,  dear  Lord? 
[67] 


FAITH'S  DIFFICULTY 

Why  didst  Thou  bow 
Thy  bleeding  brows  for  my  heart's  good? 

How  shall  I  now 
Reach  to  the  mystic  hardihood 

Where  I  can  take 
For  personal  treasure  all  Thy  loss, 

When  for  my  sake, 
My  sake,  Thou  didst  endure  the  cross? 

For  my  soul's  worth 
Was  "It  is  finished!"  loudly  cried? 

For  me  the  birth, 
The  sorrows  of  the  Crucified? 

February  i6th,  1918. 


[68] 


CHRISTMAS  ON  CRUSADE 

HERE  shall  we  bivouac  beneath  the  stars; 
Gather  the  remnant  of  our  chivalry 
About  the  crackling  fires,  and  nurse  our  scars, 
And  speak  no  more  as  fools  must,  bitterly. 

The  roads  familiar  to  His  feet  we  trod; 

We  saw  the  lonely  hills  whereon  He  wept, 
Prayed,  agonised — dear  God  of  very  God! — 

And  watched  the  whole  world  while  the  whole 
world  slept. 

We  speak  no  more  in  anger;  Christian  men 
Our  armies  rolled  upon  you,  wave  and  wave : 

But  crooked  words  and  swords,  O  Saracen, 
Can  only  hold  what  they  have  given — a  grave! 

We  know  Him,   know  that  gibbet  whence   was 
torn 

The  pardon  that  a  felon  spoke  on  sin: 
There  is  more  life  in  His  dead  crown  of  thorn 

Than  in  your  sweeping  horsemen,  Saladin ! 

We  speak  no  more  in  anger,  we  will  ride 

Homeless  to  our  own  homes.    His  bruised  head 
[69] 


CHRISTMAS  ON  CRUSADE 

Had  never  resting  place.     Each  Christmas-tide 
Blossoms  the  thorn  and  we  are  comforted. 

Yea,  of  the  sacred  cradle  of  our  creed 
We  are  despoiled;  the  kindly  tavern  door 

Is  shut  against  us  in  our  utmost  need — 
We  know  the  awful  patience  of  the  poor. 

We  speak  no  more  in  anger,  for  we  share 

His  homelessness.  We  will  forget  your  scorn. 

The  bells  are  ringing  in  the  Christmas  air; 
God  homeless  in  our  homeless  homes  is  born. 


[70] 


THE  ASCETIC 

A   WILD  wind  blows  from  out  the  angry  sky 
And  all  the  clouds  are  tossed  like  thistle- 
down 

Above  the  groaning  branches  of  the  trees; 
For  on  this  steel-cold  night  the  earth  is  stirred 
To  shake  away  its  rottenness ;  the  leaves 
Are  shed  like  secret  unremembered  sins 
In  the  great  scourge  of  the  great  love  of  God.  .  .  . 

Ere  I  was  learned  in  the  ways  of  love 
I  looked  for  it  in  green  and  pleasant  lands, 
In  apple  orchards  and  the  poppy  fields, 
And  peered  among  the  silences  of  woods, 
And  meditated  the  shy  notes  of  birds 
But  found  it  not. 

Oh,  many  a  goodly  joy 
Of  grace  and  gentle  beauty  came  to  me 
On  many  a  clear  and  cleansing  night  of  stars. 
But  when  I  sat  among  my  happy  friends 
(Singing  their  songs  and  drinking  of  their  ale, 
Warming  my  limbs  before  their  kindly  hearth) 
My  loneliness  would  seize  me  like  a  pain, 
A  hunger  strong  and  alien  as  death. 

[71] 


THE  ASCETIC 

No  comfort  stays  with  such  a  man  as  I, 
No  resting  place  amid  the  dew  and  dusk, 
Whose  head  is  filled  with  perilous  enterprise 
The  endless  quest  of  my  wild  fruitless  love. 

But  these  can  tell  how  they  have  heard  His  voice, 
Have  seen  His  face  in  pure  untroubled  sleep, 
Or  when  the  twilight  gathered  on  the  hills 
Or  when  the  moon  shone  out  beyond  the  sea ! 

Have  /  not  seen  them?    Yet  I  pilgrimage 

In  desolation  seeking  after  peace, 

Learning  how  hard  a  thing  it  is  to  love. 

There  is  a  love  that  men  find  easily, 

Familiar  as  the  latch  upon  the  door, 

Dear  as  the  curling  smoke  above  the  thatch — 

But  I  have  loved  unto  the  uttermost 

And  know  love  in  the  desperate  abyss, 

In  dereliction  and  in  blasphemy! 

And  fly  from  God  to  find  him,  fill  my  eyes 

With  road-dust  and  with  tears  and  starry  hopes, 

Ere  I  may  search  out  Love  unsearchable, 

Eternal  Truth  and  Goodness  infinite, 

And  the  ineffable  Beauty  that  is  God. 

[72] 


THE  ASCETIC 

Empty  of  scorn  and  ceasing  not  to  praise 
The  meanest  stick  and  stone  upon  the  earth, 
I  strive  unto  the  stark  Reality, 
The  Absolute  grasped  roundly  in  my  hands. 
Bitter  and  pitiless  it  is  to  love, 
To  feel  the  darkness  gather  round  the  soul, 
Love's  abnegation  for  the  sake  of  love, 
To  see  my  Templed  symbols'  slow  decay 
Become  of  every  ravenous  weed  the  food, 
Where  bats  beat  hideous  wings  about  the  arch 
And  ruined  roof,  where  ghosts  of  tragic  kings 
And  sleek  ecclesiastics  come  and  go 
Upon  the  shattered  pavements  of  my  creed. 

Yet  Mercy  at  the  last  shall  lead  me  in, 
The  Bride  immaculate  and  mystical 
Tenderly  guide  my  wayward  feet  to  peace, 
And  show  me  love  the  likeness  of  a  Man, 
The  Slave  obedient  unto  death,  the  Lamb 
Slain  from  the  first  foundations  of  the  world, 
The    Word    made    flesh,    the    tender    new-born 

Child 
That  is  the  end  of  all  my  heart's  desire. 

[73] 


THE  ASCETIC 

Then  shall  my  spirit,  naked  of  its  hopes, 
Stripped  of  its  love  unto  the  very  bone, 
Sink  simply  into  Love's  embrace  and  be 
Made  consummate  of  all  its  burning  bliss. 

August  z6t/it  1917. 


[74] 


SONNET  FOR  THE  FIFTH  OF  OCTOBER 

IF  I  had  ridden  horses  in  the  lists, 
Fought  wars,   gone  pilgrimage   to   fabled 
lands, 
Seen  Pharaoh's  drinking  cups  of  amethysts, 

Held  dead  Queens'  secret  jewels  in  my  hands — 
I  would  have  laid  my  triumphs  at  your  feet, 

And  worn  with  no  ignoble  pride  my  scars.  .  .  . 
But  I  can  only  offer  you,  my  sweet, 

The  songs  I  made  on  many  a  night  of  stars. 

Yet  have  I  worshipped  honour,  loving  you; 

Your  graciousness  and  gentle  courtesy, 
With  ringing  and  romantic  trumpets  blew 

A  mighty  music  through  the  heart  of  me, — 
A  joy  as  cleansing  as  the  wind  that  fills 
The  open  spaces  on  the  sunny  hills. 


[75] 


WARFARE 

WHEN  I  consider  all  thy  dignity, 
Thy  honour  which  my  baseness  doth  accuse 
To  my  own  soul,  thy  pride  which  doth  refuse 
Less  than  the  suffering  thou  hast  given  me, 
My  hope  is  chilled  to  fear.    How  stealthily 
Must  I  dispose  my  forces !     With  what  ruse 
And  ambush  snatch  the  bearer  of  good  news, 
Ere  I  can  escalade  austerity! 

Easier  it  were  to  fling  the  baleful  lord 

And  the  infernal  legions  of  the  Pit, 
To  ride  undaunted  at  that  roaring  horde: 

But  who  shall  armour  me  with  delicate  wit 
Sufficient  for  thine  overthrow?    What  sword 

Win  to  the  tower  where  thy  perfections  sit? 

March  io///,  1918. 


[76] 


TREASON 

THOU  hast  renounced  thy  proud  and  royal 
state ; 

Deserted  thy  strong  men-at-arms  who  stand 
Attentive  to  imperious  command; 
And  with  a  small  key  at  the  groaning  gate — 
Sweet  traitress ! — met  thine  enemy.    The  great 
Moon   threw   a   white    enchantment   o'er   the 

land 

When  in  my  hand  I  caught  thy  yielded  hand, 
And  laughing  kissed  thy  laughing  lips  elate. 

For  of  thy  queenly  folly  thou  hast  laid 

In  sandalwood  thy  stiff,  embroidered  gown; 

With  happiness  apparelled  thou  hast  strayed 
Incognita  through  many  a  sunlit  town, 

Heedless  of  our  uncaptained  hosts  arrayed 
Or  of  the  flags  their  battles  shall  bring  down. 

March  i-jth,  1918. 


[77] 


THERE  WAS  AN  HOUR 

THERE  was  an  hour  when  stars  flung  out 
A  magical  wild  melody, 
When  all  the  woods  became  alive 
With  elfin  dance  and  revelry. 

A  holiday  for  happy  hearts ! — 

The  trees  shone  silver  in  the  moon, 

And  clapped  their  gleaming  hands  to  see 
Night  like  a  radiant  kindled  noon ! 

For  suddenly  a  new  world  woke 

At  one  new  touch  of  wizardry, 
When  my  love  from  her  mirthful  mouth 

Spoke  words  of  sweet  true  love  to  me. 

February  <)th,  1918. 


W 


NOCTURNE 

HEN  evening  hangs  her  lamp  above  the 


And  calls  her  children  to  her  waiting  hearth, 
Where  pain  is  shed  away  and  love  and  wrath, 
And  every  tired  head  lies  white  and  still  — 

Dear  heart,  will  you  not  light  a  lamp  for  me, 
And  gather  up  the  meaning  of  the  lands, 
Silent  and  luminous  within  your  hands, 

Where  peace  abides  and  mirth  and  mystery? 

That  I  may  sit  with  you  beside  the  fire, 
And  ponder  on  the  thing  no  man  may  guess, 
Your  soul's  great  majesty  and  gentleness, 

Until  the  last  sad  tongue  of  flame  expire. 

December  2ist,  1916. 


[791 


PRIDE 

WHO  having  known  through  night  a  great 
star  falling 

With  half  the  host  of  heaven  in  its  wake, 

And  o'er  chaotic  seas  a  dread  voice  calling, 

And  a  new  purple  dawn  of  presage  break, 

Can  hope  to  conquer  thee,  proud  Son  of  Morning, 
Arrayed  in  mighty  lusts  of  heart  and  eyes, 

With  blood-red  rubies  set  for  thine  adorning 
And  sorceries  wherein  men's  souls  grow  wise? 

Who  shall  withstand  the  onslaught  of  thy  chariot, 
Who  ride  to  battle  with  thy  gorgeous  kings? 

Dost  thou  not  count  the  silver  to  Iscariot, 

And  Tyrian  scarlet  and  the  marvellous  rings? 

But  ivory  limbs  and  the  flung  festal  roses, 
The  maddening  music  and  the  Chian  wine, 

Are  overpast  when  one  glad  heart  discloses 
A  pride  more  strange  and  terrible  than  thine  I 

That  looked  unsatisfied  upon  thy  splendour, 
And  turned,  all  shaken  with  his  love,  away 
[80] 


PRIDE 

To  one  dear  face  that  holds  him  true  and  tender 
Until  the  trumpets  of  the  Judgment  Day. 

A  pride  that  binds  him  till  the  last  fierce  ember 
Shall  fade  from  pride's  tall  roaring  pyre  in  hell ; 

The  gentleness  and  grace  he  shall  remember, 
The  flower  she  gave,  the  love  that  she  did  tell. 


[81] 


BALLADE  OF  SHEEP  BELLS 

I    LEFT  behind  the  green  and  gracious  weald, 
And  climbing  stiffly  up  the  steep  incline 
Found  high  above  each  little  cloistered  field, 
Above  the  sombre  autumn  woods  of  pine — 
Where  gentle  skies  are  clear  and  crystalline — 
The  place  remote  from  dense  and  foolish  towns; 
And  there,  where  all  the  winds  are  sharp  with 

brine, 
/  heard  the  sheep  bells  ringing  on  the  Downs. 

The  sun  hung  out  of  heaven  like  a  shield 
Emblazoned  o'er  with  heraldry  divine. 

I  suddenly  saw,  as  though  with  eyes  unsealed, 
A  portent  sent  me  for  an  awful  sign, 
A  fairy  sea  whereon  the  cold  stars  shine; 

And  standing  on  the  sward  of  withered  browns, 
Burnt  by  the  noontide  and  cropped  close  and 
fine, 

/  heard  the  sheep  bells  ringing  on  the  Downs. 

A  carillon  of  delicate  music  pealed 

And  tingled  through  the  steeple  of  my  spine ; 

My  soul  was  filled  with  loveliness  and  healed. 
I  know  how  joy  and  anguish  intertwine — 
[82] 


BALLADE  OF  SHEEP  BELLS 

But  this  shall  greatly  comfort  me  as  wine, 
Good  wine,  comforts  a  man  and  sweetly  drowns 

The  many  sorrows  of  this  heart  of  mine — 
/  heard  the  sheeb  bells  ringing  on  the  Downs. 

L'Envoi 

Prince,  old  bell-wether  of  an  ancient  line, 

When  you're  dead  mutton  I  will  weave  you 
crowns 

Of  living  laurel — if  on  you  I  dine — 

/  heard  the  sheep  bells  ringing  on  the  Downs! 


BALLADE  OF  A  FEROCIOUS  CATHOLIC 

THERE  is  a  term  to  every  loud  dispute, 
A  final  reckoning  I'm  glad  to  say: 
Some  people  end  discussion  with  their  boot; 
Others,  the  prigs,  will  simply  walk  away. 
But  I,  within  a  world  of  rank  decay, 
Can  face  its  treasons  with  a  flaming  hope, 

Undaunted  by  faith's  foemen  in  array — 
/  drain  a  mighty  tankard  to  the  Pope! 

They  do  not  ponder  on  the  Absolute, 
But  wander  in  a  fog  of  words  astray. 

They  have  no  rigid  creed  one  can  confute, 
No  hearty  dogmas  riotous  and  gay, 
But  feebly  mutter  through  thin  lips  and  grey 

Things  foully  fashioned  out  of  sin  and  soap ; — 
But  I,  until  my  body  rests  in  clay, 

I  drain  a  mighty  tankard  to  the  Pope! 

I've  often  thought  that  I  would  like  to  shoot 
The  modernists  on  some  convenient  day; 

Pull  out  eugenists  by  their  noxious  root  -r 
The  welfare-worker  chattering  like  a  jay 
I'd  publicly  and  pitilessly  slay 
[84] 


BALLADE  OF  A  FEROCIOUS  CATHOLIC 

With  blunderbuss  or  guillotine  or  rope, 

Burn  at  the  stake,  or  boil  in  oil,  or  flay — 
/  drain  a  mighty  tankard  to  the  Pope. 

L'Envoi 

Prince,  proud  prince  Lucifer,  your  evil  sway 
Is  over  many  who  in  darkness  grope: 

But  as  for  me,  I  go  another  way — 
/  drain  a  mighty  tankard  to  the  Pope! 

March  2nd,  1918. 


[85] 


DAWN 

I    HAVE  beheld  above  the  wooded  hill 
Thy  tender  loveliness,  O  Morning,  break; 
Beheld  the  solemn  gladness  thou  dost  spill 
On  eyes  not  yet  awake. 

But  why  recall  unto  the  painful  day 

Wild  passions  sleeping  like  oblivious  kings? 

The  broad  day  comes  and  thou  dost  speed  away 
Westward  on  swift  wide  wings  I 

December  2$rd,  1917. 


[86] 


SUNSET 

I    HAVE  seen  death  in  many  a  varied  guise, 
Cruel  and  tender,  rude  and  beautiful, 
Looking  through  windows  in  a  young  child's  eyes, 

Stealing  as  soft  as  shadows  in  a  pool, 
Falling  a  sudden  arrow  of  dismay, 

Blown  on  a  bugle  with  an  iron  note : 
The  slow  and  gentle  progress  of  decay, 

The  taking  of  a  strong  man  by  the  throat. 

I  have  seen  flowers  wither  and  the  leaf 
Of  lusty  Summer  burn  to  hectic  red. 

But  ah!  that  splendid  death  untouched  by  grief: 
The  sun  with  glad  and  golden-visaged  head 

Superbly  standing  on  his  deadly  pyre, 

And  sinking  in  a  sea  of  jewelled  fire! 

February  loth,  1918. 


[87] 


PEACE 

w 


HOSE  lives  are  bound 

By  sleep  and  custom  and  tranquillity 


Have  never  found 
That  peace  which  is  a  riven  mystery 

Who  only  share 

The  calm  that  doth  this  stream,  these  orchards 
bless, 

Breathe  but  the  air 
Of  unimpassioned  pagan  quietness.  .  .  . 

Initiate, 
Pain  burns  about  your  head,  an  aureole, 

Who  hold  in  state 
The  utter  joy  which  wounds  and  heals  the  soul. 

You  kiss  the  Rod 
With  dumb,  glad  lips,  and  bear  to  worlds  apart 

The  peace  of  God 
Which  passeth  all  understanding  in  your  heart. 


[88] 


CARRION 

THE  guns  are  silent  for  an  hour;  the  sounds 
Of  war  forget  their  doom;  the  work  is 

done — 

Strong  men,  uncounted  corpses  heaped  in  mounds, 
Are  rotting  in  the  sun. 

Foul  carrion — souls  till  yesterday ! — are  these 
With  piteous  faces  in  the  bloodied  mire; 

But  where  are  now  their  generous  chanties? 
Their  laughter,  their  desire? 

In  each  rent  breast,  each  crushed  and  shattered 
skull 

Lived  joy  and  sorrow,  tenderness  and  pain, 
Hope,  ardours,  passions  brave  and  beautiful 

Among  these  thousands  slain ! 

A  little  time  ago  they  heard  the  call 

Of  mating  birds  in  thicket  and  in  brake ; 

They  wondering  saw  night's  jewelled  curtain  fall 
And  all  the  pale  stars  wake.  .  .  . 

Bodies  most  marvellously  fashioned,  stark, 

Strewn  broadcast  out  upon  the  trampled  sod — 
[89] 


CARRION 

These  temples  of  the  Holy  Ghost — O  hark!- 
These  images  of  God! 

Flesh,  as  the  Word  became  in  Bethlehem, 
Houses  to  hold  their  Sacramental  Lord: 

Swiftly  and  terribly  to  harvest  them 
Swept  the  relentless  sword ! 

Happy  if  in  your  dying  you  can  give 
Some  symbol  of  the  Eternal  Sacrificed, 

Some  pardon  to  the  hearts  of  those  who  live- 
Dying  the  death  of  Christ  1 

Feast  of  the  Epiphany, 
January  6th,  1917. 


[90] 


THE   BUILDING   OF  THE  CITY 

I     JOHN,  who  once  was  called  by  Him  in  jest 
•       Boanerges,  the  thunder's  son, 
Who  lay  in  tenderness  upon  His  breast — 
Now  that  my  days  are  done, 

And  a  great  gathering  glory  fills  my  sight, 

Would  tell  my  children  e'er  I  go 
Of  Him  I  saw  with  head  and  hair  as  white 

As  white  wool — white  as  snow. 

The  face  before  which  heaven  and  earth  did  flee, 
The  burnished  feet,  the  eyes  of  flame, 

The  seven  stars  bright  with  awful  mystery, 
And  the  Ineffable  Name  I 

Yet  I  who  saw  the  four  dread  horsemen  ride, 

The  vials  of  the  wrath  of  God, 
Beheld  a  greater  thing:  the  Lamb's  pure  Bride, 

The  golden  floors  she  trod. 

How  Babylon,  Babylon  was  overthrown, 
And  how  Euphrates  flowed  with  blood — 

Ah,  but  His  mercy  through  the  wide  world  sown, 
The  tree  with  healing  bud  I 

[91] 


THE  BUILDING  OF  THE  CITY 

I  heard,  among  the  hosts  of  Paradise, 
The  glad  new  song  that  never  tires, 

A  Lamb  as  it  had  been  slain  in  sacrifice 
Enthroned  amid  the  choirs. 

After  the  utmost  woes  have  taken  toll, 
And  ravens  plucked  the  eyes  of  kings, 

God's  own  strange  peace  shall  come  upon  the  soul 
On  gentle,  dove-like  wings. 

The  Dragon  cast  into  the  voidless  night, 

God's  city  cometh  from  above, 
Built  by  the  sword  of  Michael  and  his  might, 

But  founded  in  God's  love. 


[92] 


EDEN  RE-OPENED 

NO  man  regarded  where  God  sat 
Among  the  rapt  seraphic  brows, 
And  God's  heart  heavy  grew  thereat, 
At  man's  long  absence  from  His  house. 

Then  from  the  iris-circled  throne 
A  strange  and  secret  word  is  said, 

And  straightway  hath  an  angel  flown, 
On  wings  of  feathered  sunlight  sped, 
Through  space  to  where  the  world  shone 
red. 

Reddest  of  all  the  stars  of  night 

To  the  hoar  watchers  of  the  spheres, 

But  ashy  cold  to  man's  dim  sight, 

And  filled  with  sins  and  woes  and  fears 
And  the  waste  weariness  of  years. 

(No  laughter  rippled  in  the  grass, 
No  light  upon  the  jewelled  sea; 

The  sky  hung  sullenly  as  brass, 
And  men  went  groping  tortuously.) 

But  the  stern  warden  of  the  Gate 

Broke  his  dread  sword  upon  his  knees, 
[93] 


EDEN  RE-OPENED 

And  opened  wide  the  fields  where  wait 
The  loveless  unremembered  trees, 
The  sealed  and  silent  mysteries. 

And  the  scales  fell  from  man's  eyes, 
And  his  heart  woke  again,  as  when 

Adam  found  Eve  in  Paradise ; 

And  joy  was  made  complete  .  .  .  and  then 
God  entered  in  and  spoke  with  men. 


[94] 


THE  HOLY  SPRING 

THE  radiant  feet  of  Christ  now  lead 
The  dancing  sunny  hours, 
The  ancient  Earth  is  young  again 
With  growing  grass  and  warm  white  rain 
And  hedgerows  full  of  flowers. 

The  lilac  and  laburjium  show 

The  glory  of  their  bud, 
And  scattered  on  each  hawthorn  spray 
The  snow-white  and  the  crimson  may — 

The  may  as  red  as  blood. 

The  bluebells  in  the  deep  dim  woods 

Like  fallen  heavens  lie, 
And  daffodils  and  daffodils 
Upon  a  thousand  little  hills 

Are  waving  to  the  sky. 

The  corn  imprisoned  in  the  mould 

Has  burst  its  wintry  tomb, 
And  on  each  burdened  orchard  tree 
Which  stood  an  austere  calvary 

The  apple  blossom  bloom. 
[95] 


THE  HOLY  SPRING 

The  kiss  of  Christ  has  brought  to  life 

The  marvel  of  the  sod. 
Oh,  joy  has  rent  its  chrysalis 
To  flash  its  jewelled  wings,  and  is 
A  dream  of  beauty  and  of  bliss — 

The  loveliness  of  God. 


May  1917. 


[96] 


VIATICUM 

DEAR  God,  not  only  do  Thou  come  at  last 
When  death  hath   filled  my  heart  with 

dread  affright, 

But  when  in  gathered  dark  I  meet  aghast 
The  mimic  death  that  falls  on  me  at  night. 

The  daily  dying,  when  alone  I  tread 

The  valley  of  the  shadow,  breast  the  Styx, 

With  shrouded  soul  and  body  stiff  in  bed  .  .  . 
And  no  companion  from  the  welcome  pyx! 

How  should  I  face  disarmed  and  unawares 
The  phantoms  of  the  Pit  oblivion  brings — 

My  will  surrendered,  mind  unapt  for  snares, 
Eyes  blinded  by  the  evil,  shuddering  wings, 

Did  not  the  sunset  stand  encoped  in  gold 
For  priestly  offices,  'mid  censers  swung, 

And  with  anointed  thumb  and  finger  hold 

The  symbolled  Godhead  to  my  eager  tongue? 

Then  with  my  body's  trance  there  doth  descend 
Peace  on  my  eyelids,  goodness  that  shall  keep 

My  wandering  feet,  and  at  my  side  a  friend 
Through  all  the  winding  caverns  of  my  sleep. 

August  i2tA,  1917. 

[97] 


PUNISHMENT 

WHAT  vengeful  rod 
Is  laid  upon  my  bleeding  shoulders? 
What  scourge,  O  God, 
Makes  known  my  shame  to  all  beholders? 

Through  what  vast  skies 
Crashes  Thy  wrath  like  shuddering  thunders? 


Before  my  eyes 
Thou  dost  display  the  wonder  of  wonders ! 

As  punishment 
To  one  whom  sin  should  bind  in  prison., 

Hath  Mercy  sent 
Word  of  the  crucified  arisen ! 

Guilt's  penalty 
Exacted — past  my  reeling  reason ! — 

Which  lays  on  me 
Love — as  a  whip  fit  for  my  Treason ! 


March  $rd,  1918. 


[98] 


AFTER  COMMUNION 

NOW  art  Thou  in  my  house  of  feeble  flesh, 
O  Word  made  flesh !    My  burning  soul  by 

Thine 
Caught  mystically  in  a  living  mesh! 

Now  is  the  royal  banquet,  now  the  wine, 
The  body  broken  by  the  courteous  Host 

Who  is  my  humble  Guest — a  Guest  adored — 
Though  once  I  spat  upon,  scourged  at  the  post, 
Hounded  to  Calvary  and  slew  my  Lord  I 

My  name  is  Legion,  but  separate  and  alone; 

Wash,  wash,  dear  Crucified,  my  Pilate  hand! 
Rejected  Stone,  be  Thou  my  corner-stone ! 

Like  Mary  at  the  cross's  foot  I  stand; 
Like  Magdalene  upon  my  sins  I  grieve; 
Like  Thomas  do  I  touch  Thee  and  believe. 

December  i(>th,  1917. 


[99] 


THE  UNIVERSAL  MOTHER 

WHO  standing  thrilled  in  his  bewilderment 
Can  tell  thy  humble  ways, 

The  hidden  paths  on  which  thy  white  feet  went 
Through  all  thy  lonely  days? 

From  what  deep  root  the  Lily  of  the  Lord 

To  grace  and  beauty  grew, 
Or  in  what  fires  was  tempered  the  keen  sword 

That  pierced  thy  bosom  through? 

But  we  may  turn  and  find  within  our  hands 

Our  souls'  strange  bread  and  wine, 
The  gathered  meanings  of  thy  starry  lands 

Where  mystic  roses  shine. 

Heaven's  air  might  grow  for  us  too  cold  and  tense, 

Her  towers  far  and  faint, 
Did  we  not  know  thy  sorrowful  innocence, 

Or  soldier,  singer,  saint, 

Earth's  heroes  with  earth's  poor  not  kneel  and  tell 

Their  full  hearts'  burdenings 
To  those  dear  eyes  before  which  Gabriel 

Bent  low  with  folded  wings, 

[100] 


THE  UNIVERSAL  MOTHER. 

The  soldier  shall  remember  whose  the  heel 

That  crushed  the  serpent's  head, 
How  mighty  in  thy  hand  hath  been  the  steel 

That  dyed  thy  bosom  red. 

The  singer  weave  for  thee  a  cloak  of  light 

Where  earth's  wild  colours  run, 
As  God  hath  crowned  thee  with  the  stars  of  night 

And  clothed  thee  with  the  sun. 

The  saint  who  in  a  cloister  cool  and  dim 

His  difficult  road  hath  kept 
Shall  think  of  thee  whose  body  cloistered  Him 

When  in  thy  womb  He  slept. 

And  thou  shalt  call  to  thee  the  poor  of  earth 

To  share  thy  joy  with  them, 
And  fill  them  with  thy  magnitude  and  mirth 

In  many  a  Bethlehem. 

February  \th,  1917. 


[101] 


THE  BOASTER 

IF  the  last  blissful  star  should  fade  and  wither, 
If  one  by  one 

Orion  and  the  Pleiades  crash  and  crumble; 
The  lordly  sun 

Be  turned  away,  a  beggar,  all  his  triumphs 

Gone  down  in  doom, 
Wandering  unregarded  through  the  cosmos, 

None  giving  him  room. 

Then  would  I  shout  defiant  to  the  whirlwinds; 

Boastingly  cry, 

"Go   wreck   the   world,    its   towering   hills    and 
waters! 

But  I,  even  I, 

"Whose  body  was  flung  out  upon  the  dungheap 

With  weeds  to  rot, 
Still  keep  my  soul  unshaken  by  the  ruin 

That  harms  me  not! 

"True,  I  have  fled  from  many  a  shameful  battle, 

Did  cringe  and  cower 
Before  my  foes,  but  who  can  ever  rob  me 

Of  one  great  hour?" 

[102] 


THE  BOASTER 

For  joy  rang  through  me  like  a  silver  trumpet; 

About  my  head 
The  tiny  flowers  flapped  in  the  breeze  like  banners 

Of  royal  red. 

And  suddenly  the  seven  deeps  of  heaven 

Were  cloven  apart, 

When  love  stood  in  your  eyes  and  shone  and 
trembled 

Within  your  heart. 

February  yd,  1918. 


UNWED 

IF  I  go  down4to  death  uncomforted 
By  love's  great  conquest  and  its  great  sur- 
render, 
Bearing  my  soul  along,  unwed,  unwed; 

(Your  darling  hands'  caresses  swift  and  tender 
Lacking  upon  my  head,  upon  my  lips 

Your  lips)  ;  and  in  my  heart  love  unfulfilled, 
And  in  my  eyes  a  blind  apocalypse, 
Bereft  of  all  the  glory  I  have  willed; 

I  shall  go  proudly  for  your  dear  love's  sake, 
Triumphant  for  brief  memories,  but  tragic 

Because  of  those  large  hopes  that  fail  and  break 
Beneath  Fate's  wizard-wand  of  cruel  magic — 

But  ah,  Fate  could  not  touch  me  if  I  stood 

Completed  by  your  love's  beatitude  1 

December  i^th,  1917. 


[104] 


WED 

I    KNOW  the  winds  are  rhythmical 
In  unison  with  your  footfall. 
I  know  that  in  your  heart  you  keep 
The  secret  of  the  woodland's  sleep. 

You  met  the  blossom-bearing  May — 
Sweet  sister! — on  the  road  half  way, 
And  she  has  laid  upon  your  hair 
The  coloured  coronal  you  wear. 

But  ah !  the  white  wings  of  the  Dovre 
Flutter  about  the  head  I  love, 
And  on  your  bosom  doth  repose 
The  beauty  of  the  Mystic  Rose, 

That  I  must  add  to  poetry 
A  dark  and  fearful  ecstasy; 
For  in  the  house  of  joy  you  bless 
Unworthiness  with  holiness. 


[105] 


ENGLAND 


LIKE  some  good  ship  that  founders  in  the  sea, 
Like  granite  towers  that  crumble  into  dust, 
So  pass  the  emblems  of  thine  empery. 

But  O  immortal  Mother  and  august, 
Ardours  of  English  saint  and  bard  and  king 

Blend  simply  with  thy  soul,  even  as  their  bones 
Mingle  with  English  soil.    Their  spirits  sing 

A  great  song  lordly  as  is  a  loud  wind's  tones. 
Decayed  by  gold  and  ease  and  loathly  pride, 

We  had  forgot  our  greatness  and  become 
Huckstering  empire-builders,  and  denied 

The  excellent  name  of  freedom  .  . .  till  the  drum 
Woke  glory  such  as  met  the  eyes  of  Drake, 
Or  Alfred  when  he  saw  the  heathen  break  1 

II 

Where  shall  we  find  thee?    In  the  avarice 

That  robs  our  brave  adventures?    In  the  shame 
Spoiling  our  splendours?     In  the  sacrifice 

Of  tears  we  wrung  from  Ireland?     Nay,  thy 
name 

[106] 


ENGLAND 

Is  written  secretly  in  kindliness 

Upon  the  patient  faces  of  the  poor, 
In  that  good  anger  wherewith  thou  didst  bless 

Our  hearts,  when  beat  upon  the  shaking  door 
Strong  hands  of  hell.  .  .  .  Whether  before  the 
flood 

We  sink,  or  out  of  agonies  reborn 
Learn  once  again  the  meaning  of  our  blood, 

Laughter  and  liberty — a  sacred  scorn 
Is  ours  irrevocably  since  we  stood 

And   heard  the  barbarians'    guns   across   the 
morn. 

December  z\th  and  261/1,  1917. 


[107] 


LYRIC  LOVE 

WHEN  kindly  years  have  given  me  grace 
To  read  your  spirit  through; 
To  see  the  starlight  on  your  face, 
Upon  your  hair  the  dew; 

To  touch  the  fingers  of  your  hands, 

The  shining  wealth  they  hold ; 
To  find  in  dim  and  dreamy  lands 

That  tender  dusks  enfold 

The  ancient  sorrows  that  were  sealed, 

The  hidden  wells  of  joy, 
The  secrets  that  were  unrevealed 

To  one  who  was  a  boy. 

Then  to  my  patient  ponderings 

Will  fruits  of  solace  fall, 
When  I  have  learned  through  many  Springs, 

Mighty  and  mystical, 

To  hear  through  sounds  of  brooks  and  birds 

Love  in  the  leafy  grove, 
As  in  my  lyric  heart  your  words 

Bestir  a  lyric  love. 

[108] 


LYRIC  LOVE 

Then  I  shall  brood,  grown  good  and  wise, 

The  truth  of  fairy  tales, 
And  greet  romance  with  gay  surprise 

In  woods  of  nightingales. 

And  find,  with  hoary  head  and  sage, 

In  songs  which  I  have  sung 
The  meanings  of  the  end  of  age — 

The  rapture  of  the  young ! 

February  nth,  1918. 


fl09] 


DRUMS  OF  DEFEAT 


THE  FOOL 

A   SHOUT  of  laughter  and  of  scorn, 
A  million  jeering  lips  and  eyes — 
And  in  the  sight  of  all  men  born 

The  wildest  of  earth's  madmen  dies ! 

Whose  trust  was  put  in  empty  words 
To-day  is  numbered  with  the  dead; 

To-morrow  crows  and  evil  birds 

Shall  pluck  those  strange  eyes  from  his  head ! 

The  fellows  of  this  country  clown 
Are  scattered  (fool  beyond  belief!), 

All  blown  away  like  thistledown, 
Except  a  harlot  and  a  thief. 

And  shall  he  shatter  fates  with  these? 

(He  that  would  neither  strive  nor  cry) 
Or  thunder  through  the  Seven  Seas? 

Or  shake  the  stars  down  from  the  sky? 

Have  mercy  and  humility 

Become  unconquerable  swords, 
That  Caiaphas  must  tremblingly 

Kneel  with  the  world's  imperial  lords 

[113] 


THE  FOOL 

Before  this  crazy  carpenter — 
This  body  writhing  on  a  rod — 

And  worship  in  that  bloody  hair 
The  dreadful  foolishness  of  God? 

A  shout  of  laughter  and  of  scorn, 
A  million  jeering  lips  and  eyes — 

And  in  the  sight  of  all  men  born 

The  wildest  of  earth's  madmen  dies  I 


DON  QUIXOTE 

THE  air  is  valiant  with  drums 
And  honourable  the  skies, 
When  he  rides  singing  as  he  comes 

With  solemn,  dreamy  eyes — 
Of  swinging  of  the  splendid  swords, 
And  crashing  of  the  nether  lords, 
When  Hell  makes  onslaught  with  its  hordes 
In  desperate  emprise. 

He  rides  along  the  roads  of  Spain 

The  champion  of  the  world, 
For  whom  great  soldans  live  again 

With  Moorish  beards  curled — 
But  all  their  spears  shall  not  avail 
With  one  who  weareth  magic  mail, 
This  hero  of  an  epic  tale 

And  his  brave  gauntlet  hurled! 

Clangour  of  horses  and  of  arms 

Across  the  quiet  fields, 
Herald  and  trumpeter,  alarms 

Of  bowmen  and  of  shields; 


DON  QUIXOTE 

When  doubt  that  twists  and  is  afraid 
Is  shattered  in  the  last  crusade, 
Where  flaunts  the  plume  and  falls  the  blade 
The  cavalier  wields. 

Although  in  that  eternal  cause 

No  liegemen  gather  now, 
Or  flowered  dames  to  grant  applause, 

Yet  on  his  naked  brow 
The  victor's  laurels  interwreath ; 
But  he  no  dower  can  bequeath 
But  sword  snapped  short  and  empty  sheath 

And  errantry  and  vow ! 

Against  his  foolish  innocence 

No  man  alive  can  stand, 
Nor  any  giant  drive  him  hence 

With  sling  or  club  or  brand — 
For  where  his  angry  bugle  blows 
There  fall  unconquerable  foes; 
Of  mighty  men  of  war  none  knows 

To  stay  his  witless  hand. 

All  legendary  wars  grow  tame 
And  every  tale  gives  place 
[116] 


DON  QUIXOTE 

Before  the  knight's  unsullied  name 

And  his  romantic  face : 
Yea,  he  shall  break  the  stoutest  bars 
And  bear  his  courage  and  his  scars 
Beyond  the  whirling  moons  and  stars 

And  all  the  suns  of  space  1 


IRELAND 

BESIDE  your  bitter  waters  rise 
The  Mystic  Rose,  the  Holy  Tree, 
Immortal  courage  in  your  eyes, 
And  pain  and  liberty. 

The  stricken  arms,  the  cloven  shields, 

The  trampled  plumes,  the  shattered  drum, 

The  swords  of  your  lost  battlefields 
To  hopeless  battles  come. 

And  though  your  scattered  remnants  know 
Their  shameful  rout,  their  fallen  kings, 

Yet  shall  the  strong,  victorious  foe 
Not  understand  these  things : 

The  broken  ranks  that  never  break, 
The  merry  road  your  rabble  trod, 

The  awful  laughter  they  shall  take 
Before  the  throne  of  God. 


[118] 


IN  MEMORIAM 
PATRICK  HENRY  PEARSE 

Executed  May  $rd,  1916 
R.I.P. 

IN  this  grey  morning  wrapped  in  mist  and  rain 
You  stood  erect  beneath  the  sullen  sky, 
A  heart  which  held  its  peace  and  noble  pain, 
A  brave  and  gentle  eye  ! 

The  last  of  all  your  silver  songs  are  sung; 

Your  fledgling   dreams   on   broken   wings   are 

dashed — 
For  suddenly  a  tragic  sword  was  swung 

And  ten  true  rifles  crashed. 

By  one  who  walks  aloof  in  English  ways 

Be  this  high  word  of  praise  and  sorrow  said: 

He  lived  with  honour  all  his  lovely  days, 
And  is  immortal,  dead! 


MATER  DESOLATA 

To  MARGARET  PEARSE 

TO  you  the  dreary  night's  long  agony, 
The   anguish,   and  the  laden  heart  that 

broke 
Its  vase  of  burning  tears,  the  voiceless  cry, — 

And  then  the  horror  of  that  blinding  stroke ! 
To  you  all  this — and  yet  to  you  much  more. 

God  pressed  into  the  chalice  of  your  pain 
A  starry  triumph,  when  the  sons  you  bore 

Were  written  on  the  roll  of  Ireland's  slain. 
Let  no  man  touch  your  glorious  heritage, 

Or  pluck  one  pang  of  sorrow  from  your  heart, 
Or  stain  with  any  pity  the  bright  page 

Emblazoning  the  holy  martyrs'  part. 
Ride  as  a  queen  your  splendid  destiny, 
Since  death  is  swallowed  up  in  victory  I 


[120] 


THE    STIRRUP    CUP 

DRAW  rein;  there's  the  inn  where  the  lamps 
show  plain — 

Where  we  never  may  drink  together  again. 
While  the  stars  are  lost  in  the  slate-cold  sky 
Let  us  drink  good  ale  before  we  die 
In  the  wind  and  bitter  rain! 

Your  sword  is  made  ready  upon  your  hip? 
Then  once  again,  man,  in  good-fellowship  I 
Though  hunted  and  outlawed  and  fugitive 
We  shall  drink  together  again  if  we  live — 
Set  the  tankard  to  your  lip ! 

Honour  and  death  and — how  goes  the  tune? 
See  the  clouds  rift  and  disrobe  the  moon ! 
And  a  blood-red  streak  in  the  sullen  skies 
And — Honour  and  death  and  adventure's  eyes — 
Now  spurs — for  they'll  be  here  soon ! 


[121] 


THE  ENSIGN 

HIGH  up  above  the  wooded  ridge 
Beams  out  a  round  benignant  moon 
Upon  the  village  and  the  bridge 

Through  which  the  slumberous  waters  croon. 

Now  polished  silver  is  the  mill; 

And,  clad  in  ghostly  mysteries, 
The  church  tower  glimmers  on  the  hill 

Among  the  sad,  abiding  trees; 

And  watched  by  its  familiar  star 

Sleeps  each  small  house,  so  still  and  white — 
From  all  the  noise  and  blood  of  war, 

O  God,  how  far  removed  to-night ! 

Unconscious  of  their  destiny 

How  many  drew  this  air  for  breath; 

Here  lived  and  loved  .  .  .  and  now  they  see 
The  terrible,  swift  shape  of  death. 

The  bounty  of  these  quiet  skies, 

The  tender  beauty  of  these  lands, 
Still  sheds  a  peace  upon  their  eyes, 

And  binds  their  hearts  and  nerves  their  hands. 
[122] 


THE  ENSIGN 


That  they  who  only  thought  to  know 
This  valley  in  the  moonlight  furled, 

Have  heard  immortal  trumpets  blow, 
And  shake  the  pillars  of  the  world  1 


[123] 


BALLADE  OF  ORCHARDS 

THOUGH  Jeshurun  kicks  and  grows  fatter 
and  fatter, 

And  chinks  in  his  pockets  the  gold  of  his  gain, 

Yet  up  in  the  gables  the  young  sparrows  chatter, 

The  corn-fields  are  rich  with  the  promise  of 

grain, 
The   hedges    are   yellow,    and    (balm   to    the 

brain!) 
Their  pink  and  white  blossoms  the  cherry  trees 

scatter — 
The  blossoming  orchards  of  England  remain! 

Long  lines  of  our  soldiers  swing  by  with  a  clatter, 
To  die  in  their  thousands  by  river  and  plain, 

In  lands  where  the  gathering  loud  torrents  batter, 
They  heap  the  hills  high  with  heroical  slain — 
But  far  in  the  weald  how  the  misty  moons  wane ! 

And  deep  in  a  silence  no  anger  can  shatter 
The  blossoming  orchards  of  England  remain! 

The  world  is  a  fool  and  as  mad  as  a  hatter — 
And  poets  and  lovers  were  sent  her  for  bane — 
[124] 


BALLADE  OF  ORCHARDS 

Yet  theirs  are  the  ears  which  .can  catch  the  first 

patter, 

The  prophet  of  all  God's  abundance  of  rain, 
The    smell   of   earth    earthy    and   wholesome 

again; 
And  from  the  drenched  ground  where  the  spent 

bullets  spatter 
The  blossoming  orchards  of  England  remain! 

L'Envoi 

Princes  and  potentates,  ye  whom  men  flatter, 
Harken  a  moment  to  this  my  refrain — 

Ye  shall  pass  as  a  dream,  and  it  will  not  much 

matter — 
The  blossoming  orchards  of  England  remain! 


[125] 


A  GREAT  WIND 

A  GREAT  wind  blows  through  the  pine  trees, 
A  clean  salt  wind  from  sea, 
A  loud  wind  full  of  all  healing 

Blows  kindly  but  boisterously; 
Oh,  a  good  wind  blows  through  the  pine  trees 
And  the  heart  and  mind  of  me ! 

A  wind  stirs  the  long  grass  lightly 
And  the  dear  young  flowers  of  May, 

And  blows  in  the  English  meadows 
The  breath  of  a  Summer's  day — 

But  this  wind  rings  with  honour 
And  is  wet  with  the  cold  sea  spray. 

There  are  straits  where  the  tall  ships  founder 
And  no  live  thing  may  draw  breath, 

Where  men  look  at  splendid,  angry  skies 
And  hear  what  the  thunder  saith: 

Where  men  look  their  last  at  glory 
And  bravely  drink  of  death. 

There  is  much  afoot  this  evening 
In  these  pine  woods  by  the  sea, 
[126] 


A  GREAT  WIND 

And  no  branch  shall  endure  until  morning 
That  is  rotten  on  the  tree — 

Nor  any  decayed  thing  endure  in  my  soul 
When  God's  wind  blows  through  me ! 


[127] 


BIRTHDAY  SONNET 

HOW  shall  I  find  the  words  of  perfect  praise, 
To  give  you  back  the  gladness  and  the 

mirth, 
With  which  you  filled  my  hands,  the  lyric  days 

Your  gracious  bounty  gave  me  in  my  dearth? 
My  song  fails  on  the  wing,  and  yet  I  know 

The  meaning  of  Spring's  living  ecstasy, 
The  laughing  prophecy  the  March  winds  blow 
Among  the  buds,  and  through  the  heart  of  me. 

I  know,  I  know  the  rose  and  silver  dress, 

Wherewith  God  clothed  that  clear  and  virginal 
morn, 

Which  came  to  you  in  joyful  gentleness, 

The  hour  of  shy  delight  when  you  were  born. 

I  know  the  innocence  and  sweet  surprise, 

The  waiting  earth  made  ready  for  your  eyes. 

March  2jth,  1917 


[128] 


SILENCE 

THOUGH  I  should  deck  you  with  my  jew- 
elled rhyme, 

And  spread  my  songs  a  carpet  at  your  feet, 
Where  men  may  see  unchanged  through  changing 

time 

Your  face  a  pattern  in  sad  songs  and  sweet; 
Though  I  should  blow  your  honour  through  the 

earth 

Or  touch  your  gentleness  on  gentle  strings, 
Or  sing  abroad  your  beauty  and  your  worth — 
Dearest,  yet  these  were  all  imperfect  things. 

Rather  in  lovely  silence  will  I  keep 

The  heart's  shut  song  no  words  of  mine  may 

mar, 
No  words  of  mine  enrich.    The  ways  of  sleep 

And  prayer  and  pain,  all  things  that  lonely  are, 
All  humble  things  that  worship  and  rejoice 
Shall  weave  a  spell  of  silence  for  my  voice. 


[129] 


AT  YELVERTON 

WHEN  into  Yelverton  I  came 
I  found  the  bracken  all  aflame, 
The  tors  in  their  unyielding  line, 
The  air  as  comforting  as  wine, 
The  swinging  wind,  the  singing  sun 
At  Yelverton. 

At  Yelverton  the  moor  is  kind 
And  blows  its  healing  through  my  mind, 
The  hunchback  skyline  lies  a  mist 
Of  purple  and  of  amethyst, 
And  up  and  down  the  smooth  roads  run 
At  Yelverton. 

At  Yelverton  a  man  may  stand, 
The  whole  of  Devon  within  his  hand, 
The  tors  in  their  austerity, 
And  far  away  the  basking  sea, 
A  cloth  of  shining  silver  spun 
At  Yelverton. 

At  Yelverton  a  man  may  keep 
Deep  silence  and  a  deeper  sleep, 


AT  YELFERTON 

Yet  know  the  brave  recurring  dream 
Of  kingly  cider,  queenly  cream 
To  bless  him  when  his  days  are  done 
At  Yelverton. 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  WORLD 

FOR  your  joy  do  the  long  grasses  rustle,  the 
tree-tops  stir 
Where  the  wind  moves  eagerly  through  the  pine 

and  the  fir; 

Alert  for  your  coming  the  woods  and  the  mead- 
ows all  wait; 

The  buttercups  grow  and  the  turtle  calls  to  his 
mate. 

And  God  for  your  clothing  fashioned  in  patience 

the  sun, 
A  cloak  wrought  of  glory  and  fire  where  dreadful 

dyes  run, 
Saffron  and  crimson  and  sapphire  and  gold,  as  is 

meet; 
And  stars  to  be  set  on  your  head  and  stars  under 

your  feet. 

For  you,  His  most  lovely  of  daughters,  the  mighty 

God  bowed 
From  heaven  to  give  you  your  dowry  of  sunset  and 

cloud ; 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  WORLD 

And  splendid  in  light  and  in  worship  were  Ga- 
briel's wings, 

When  he  breathed  in  your  bosom  the  hope  of 
impossible  things. 


Sudden  and  dear  was  the  secret  he  whispered  to 

you, 
Of  one  who  should  quietly  fall  to  the  earth  with 

the  dew; 
As  dew  that  at  night  in  the  valleys  distils  upon 

fleece, 
With  no  shattering  trump  did  He  come  but  in 

terrible  peace. 

In  your  hands  that  are  sweeter  than  honey,  in  all 

the  wide  earth 
God  laid  the  desire  of  the  nations,  their  home  and 

their  mirth, 
And  gave  to  your  merciful  keeping  man's  joy  and 

man's  rest, 
And    under    incredible    skies    a    babe    at    your 

breast. 

[133] 


THE  JOY  OF  THE  WORLD 

And  though  the  stars  wane  and  the  royal  deep 

colours  should  fade, 
Yet  still  shall  endure  in  the  heart  and  the  lips  of  a 

Maid, 
The  sweep  of  the  archangel's  pinions — the  humble 

accord — 
The  song — the  dim  stable — the  night — and  the 

birth  of  the  Lord! 

For  your  joy  do  the  long  grasses  rustle,  the  tree- 
tops  stir 

Where  the  wind  moves  eagerly  through  the  pine 
and  the  fir; 

Alert  for  your  coming  the  woods  and  the  meadows 
all  wait; 

The  buttercups  grow  and  the  turtle  calls  to  his 
mate. 


[134] 


GRATITUDE 

HOW  shall  I  answer  God  and  stand, 
My  naked  life  within  my  hand, 
To  plead  upon  the  Judgment  Day? 
Seeing  the  glory  in  array 
Of  cherubim  and  seraphim, 
What  answer  shall  I  give  to  Him? 

I  was  too  dull  of  heart  and  sense 
To  read  His  cryptic  providence, 
Its  strange  and  intricate  device 
Was  hidden  from  my  foolish  eyes. 
My  gratitude  could  not  reach  up 
To  the  sharing  of  His  awful  cup, 
To  the  blinding  light  of  mystery 
And  the  painful  pomp  of  sanctity. 

But  since  as  a  happy  child  I  went 
With  love  and  laughter  and  content 
Along  the  road  of  simple  things, 
Making  no  idle  questionings; 
Since  young  and  careless  I  did  keep 
The  cool  and  cloistered  halls  of  sleep, 

[135] 


GRATITUDE 

And  took  my  daily  drink  and  food, 
Finding  them  very,  very  good — 
God  may  perhaps  be  pleased  to  see 
Such  signs  of  sheer  felicity. 

But  if  I  somehow  should  be  given 

An  attic  in  His  storied  heaven, 

I'm  sure  I  should  be  far  apart 

From  Catherine  of  the  wounded  heart, 

Teresa  of  the  flaming  soul, 

And  Bruno's  sevenfold  aureole, 

And  be  told,  of  course,  I'm  not  to  mix 

With  the  Bernards  or  the  Dominies, 

Or  thrust  my  company  upon 

St.  Michael  or  the  great  St.  John. 

Yet  God  may  grant  it  me  to  sit 
And  sing  (with  little  skill  or  wit) 
My  intimate  canticles  of  praise 
For  all  life's  dear  and  gracious  days — 
Though  hardly  a  single  syllable 
Of  what  St.  Raphael  has  to  tell, 
The  triumphs  of  the  cosmic  wars, 
The  raptures  and  the  jewelled  scars 
[136] 


GRATITUDE 

Of  the  high  lords  of  martyrdom — 
Hardly  a  word  of  this  will  come 
To  strike  my  understanding  ear, 
Hardly  a  single  word,  I  fear! 


But  woe  upon  the  Judgment  Day 
If  my  heart  gladdened  not  at  May; 
Nor  woke  to  hear  with  the  waking  birds 
The  morning's  sweet  and  winsome  words; 
Nor  loved  to  see  laburnums  fling 
Their  pennons  to  the  winds  of  Spring; 
Nor  watched  among  the  expectant  grass 
The  Summer's  painted  pageant  pass; 
Nor  thrilled  with  blithe  beatitude 
Within  a  kindling  Autumn  wood 
Or  when  each  separate  twig  did  lie 
Etched  sharp  upon  the  wintry  sky. 
If  out  of  all  my  sunny  hours 
I  brought  no  chaplet  of  their  flowers; 
If  I  gave  no  kiss  to  His  lovely  feet 
When  they  shone  as  poppies  in  the  wheat; 
If  no  rose  to  me  were  a  Mystic  Rose, 
No  Snow  were  whiter  than  the  snows; 
[137] 


GRATITUDE 

If  in  my  baseness  I  let  fall 
At  once  His  cross  and  His  carnival  .  . 
Then  must  I  take  my  ungrateful  head 
To  where  the  lakes  of  Hell  burn  red. 


[1.38] 


IN  DOMO  JOHANNIS 

HERE  rest  the  thin  worn  hands  which  fondled 
Him, 

The  trembling  lips  which  magnified  the  Lord, 
Who  looked  upon  His  handmaid,  the  young,  slim 

Mary  at  her  meek  tasks,  and  here  the  sword 
Within  the  soul  of  her  whose  anguished  eyes 

Gazed  at  the  stars  which  watch  Gethsemane, 
And  saw  the  sun  fail  in  the  stricken  skies. 

In  these  dim  rooms  she  guards  the  treasury 
Of  her  white  memories — the  strange,  sweet  face 

More  marred  than  any  man's,  the  tender,  fain 
And  eager  words,  the  wistful  human  grace, 

The  mysteries  of  glory,  joy  and  pain, 
And  that  hope  tremulous,  half-sob,  half-song, 
Ringing  through  night — "How  long,  O  Lord,  how 
long?" 


[139] 


AT  WOODCHESTER 

HARK  how  a  silver  music  falls 
Between  these  meek  monastic  walls, 
And  airy  flute  and  psaltery 
Awaken  heavenly  melody! 

Yet  not  to  unentuned  ears 
May  come  the  joyance  of  the  spheres, 
And  only  humbled  hearts  may  see 
The  humble  heart  of  mystery. 

Where  tread  in  light  and  lilting  ways 
Bright  angels  through  the  dance's  maze 
On  grassy  floors  to  meet  the  just 
In  robes  of  woven  diamond  dust. 

And  jewelled  daisies  burst  to  greet 
The  flutter  of  the  Blessed's  feet: 
Along  the  cloister's  gathered  gloom 
Lilies  and  mystic  roses  bloom. 

Grown  in  the  hush  of  hidden  hours 
Thoughts  fairer  than  the  summer  flowers 
Lift  up  their  sweet  and  living  heads, 
Crystalline  whites  and  sanguine  reds! 
[140], 


AT  WOODCHESTER 

Who  keep  in  lowly  pageantry 
Silence  a  lovely  ceremony;* 
Who  set  a  seal  upon  their  eyes 
Responsive  only  to  the  skies; 

Who  in  a  quick  obedience  move 
Along  the  hallowed  paths  of  love, 
Win  at  last  to  that  secret  place 
Adorned  with  the  glory  of  God's  face. 

And  as  each  eve  the  tired  sun 
Sinks  softly  down,  the  long  day  done, 
Upon  the  bosom  of  the  west — 
So,  even  so,  upon  God's  breast 

Each  weary  heart  is  folded  deep 
Into  His  arms  in  quiet  sleep, 
And  sheltered  safe,  all  warm  and  bright, 
Against  the  phantoms  of  the  night. 

*"Quia  silentium  est  pulchra  caeremonia": 
Ex  Constitutionibus  Fratrum 
S.  Ordinis  Praedicatorum. 


[141] 


"FOR  THEY  SHALL  POSSESS 
THE  EARTH" 

YOU  who  were  beauty's  worshipper, 
Her  ardent  lover,  in  this  place 
You  have  seen  Beauty  face  to  face; 
And  known  the  wistful  eyes  of  her, 
And  kissed  the  hands  of  Poverty, 
And  praised  her  tattered  bravery. 

You  shall  be  humble,  give  your  days 

To  silence  and  simplicity; 

And  solitude  shall  come  to  be 
The  goal  of  all  your  winding  ways ; 
When  pride  and  youthful  pomp  of  words 
Fly  far  away  like  startled  birds. 

Possessing  nothing,  you  shall  know 
The  heart  of  all  things  in  the  earth, 
Their  secret  agonies  and  mirth, 
The  awful  innocence  of  snow, 
The  sadness  of  November  leaves, 
The  joy  of  fields  of  girded  sheaves. 

A  shelter  from  the  driving  rain 

Your  high  renouncement  of  desire; 

Food  it  shall  be  and  wine  and  fire; 

[142] 


'FOR  THEY  SHALL  POSSESS  THE 

And  Peace  shall  enter  once  again 

As  quietly  as  dreams  in  sleep 

The  hidden  trysting-place  you  keep. 


You  shall  grow  humble  as  the  grass, 
And  patient  as  each  slow,  dumb  beast; 
And  as  their  fellow  —  yea  the  least  — 

Yield  stoat  and  hedgehog  room  to  pass; 

And  learn  the  ignorance  of  men 

Before  the  robin  and  the  wren. 

The  things  so  terrible  and  sweet 
You  strove  to  say  in  accents  harsh, 
The  frogs  are  croaking  on  the  marsh, 
The  crickets  chirping  at  your  feet  — 
Oh,  they  can  teach  you  unafraid 
The  meaning  of  the  songs  you  made. 

Till  clothed  in  white  humilities, 
Each  happening  that  doth  befall, 
Each  thought  of  yours  be  musical, 
As  wind  is  musical  in  the  trees, 
When  strong  as  sun  and  clean  as  dew 
Your  old  dead  songs  come  back  to  you. 

[143] 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BEST  SONG 
IN  THE  WORLD 

I     KNOW  a  sheaf  of  splendid  songs  by  heart 
Which  stir  the  blood  or  move  the  soul  to 

tears, 
Of  death  or  honour  or  of  love's  sweet  smart, 

The  runes  and  legends  of  a  thousand  years; 
And  some  of  them  go  plaintively  and  slow, 

And  some  are  jolly  like  the  earth  in  May — 
But  this  is  really  the  best  song  I  know : 
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay. 

I  sang  it  in  a  house-boat  on  the  Dart 

To  several  members  of  the  House  of  Peers. 
The  Editor  of  the  Exchange  and  Mart 

(A  man  of  taste)  stood  up  and  led  the  cheers. 
I  carolled  it  at  Christmas  in  the  snow, 

I  hummed  it  on  my  summer  holiday — 
Doh-ray-me-fah-sol-la-fah-me-ray-doh — 

I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay. 

It  made  a  gathering  of  Fabians  start 

And  put  their  fingers  in  their  outraged  ears. 

They  did  not  understand  my  subtle  art, 

But  though  they  only  gave  me  scoffs  and  jeers, 
[144] 


BALLADE  OF  BEST  SONG  IN  THE  WORLD 

I  sang  my  ditty  high,  I  sang  it  low, 

I  sang  it  every  known  (and  unknown)  way — 

Crescendo,  forte,  pianissimo — 
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay. 

L' Envoi 

Prince,  if  by  some  amazing  fluke  you  go 

To  heaven,  you'll  hear  the  shawms  and  citherns 
play, 

And  all  the  trumpets  of  the  angels  blow 
I-tiddly-iddly-i-ti-iddly-ay. 


[145] 


TAIL-PIECE 

A   BOY  goes  by  the  window  while  I  write, 
Whistling — the  little  demon! — in  delight. 
I  shake  my  fist  and  scowl  at  him,  and  curse 
Over  the  carcase  of  my  murdered  verse. 
And  yet — which  is  it  that  the  world  most  needs, 
His  happy  laughter  or  my  threadbare  screeds? 
There  is  more  poetry  in  being  young 
Than  in  the  finest  song  that  Shakespeare  sung — 
And  if  that's  true  of  godlike  Shakespeare — well, 
Whistle  the  Marseillaise,  and  ring  the  bell, 
And  chase  the  cat,  and  lose  your  tennis-ball, 
And  tear  your  trousers  on  the  garden  wall, 
Scalp  a  Red  Indian,  sail  the  Spanish  seas — 
Do  any  mortal  thing  you  damn  well  please. 


[146] 


AVE 

WHEN  all  the  world  was  black 
Your  courage  did  not  fail; 
No  laughter  did  you  lack 
Or  fellowship  or  ale. 

And  you  have  made  defeat 

A  nobler  pageantry, 
Your  bitterness  more  sweet 

Than  is  their  victory. 

For  by  your  stricken  lips 

A  gallant  song  is  sung; 
Joy  suffers  no  eclipse, 

Is  lyrical  and  young, 

Is  rooted  in  the  sod, 

Is  ambient  in  the  air, 
Since  Hope  lifts  up  to  God 

The  escalade  of  prayer. 

The  tyrants  and  the  kings 
In  purple  splendour  ride, 

But  all  ironic  things 

Go  marching  at  your  side 

[H7] 


AVE 


To  nerve  your  hands  with  power, 
To  salt  your  souls  with  scorn, 

Till  that  awaited  hour 

When  Freedom  shall  be  born. 


[148] 


A  REPLY 

To  one  who  said  that  to  conceive  of  God  as  a  person  was  to 
reduce  Him  to  our  own  level. 

OH,  we  can  pierce 
With  the  swift  lightnings  far  and  fierce ; 
We  can  behold 
Him  in  the  sunset's  lucid  gold. 

Yet  not  by  these 

Do  we  read  His  dark  mysteries, 

Or  tear  apart 

The  thick  veil  upon  Heaven's  heart.  .  .  . 

Kneel  with  the  kings 

Before  His  dreadful  Emptyings, 

And  see  Him  laid 

In  the  slender  arms  of  a  Maid. 

The  village  street 

Knew  God's  familiar,  weary  feet — 

The  carpenter's  Son 

Who  made  the  great  hills  one  by  one. 

No  glory  slips 

From  His  sublime  apocalypse — 

[149] 


A  REPLY 

His  homespun  dress, 

Hunger,  thirst  and  the  Avilderness. 

To  a  slave's  death 

He  gave  his  broken  body's  breath; 

An  outcast  hung 

The  swart  and  venomous  thieves  among. 

And  still  yields  He 

Godhead  to  our  humanity, 

Leaving  for  sign 

Himself  in  the  meek  bread  and  wine. 


[150] 


JOB 

CAN  flesh  and  blood  contrive  defence 
'Gainst  swords  that  pierce  the  spirit 

through, 

Or  meet,  not  knowing  why  or  whence, 
The  blind  bolt  crashing  from  the  blue? 

uOh,  men  have  held  times  out  of  mind 
Their  stern  and  stoic  courage  bright — 

But  if  no  cry  comes  on  the  wind, 

How  shall  I  face  the  ambushed  night? 

"How  shall  I  turn  to  bay,  and  stand 

To  grapple,  if  I  cannot  see 
My  fierce  assailant  at  my  hand, 

The  high  look  of  mine  enemy? 

"If  He  will  answer  me,  with  rod 

And  plague  and  thunder  let  Him  come — 

But  how  can  man  dispute  with  God 

Who  writes  no  book,  whose  voice  is  dumb? 

"Who  rings  me  round  with  prison  bars 
Through  which  I  peer  with  sleepless  eyes, 

[151] 


JOB 


And  see  the  enigmatic  stars — 
These  only — in  the  iron  skies." 


"These  only?  These  together  sang 
At  the  glad  birthday  of  the  earth 

When  all  the  courts  of  Heaven  rang 
With  shouting  and  angelic  mirth ! 

"The  night  enfolds  you  with  a  cloak 
Of  silence  and  of  chill  affright? 

But  when  man's  wells  of  laughter  broke, 
Who  gave  man  singing  in  the  night? 

"The  Rod  shall  burst  to  flowers  and  fruit 
Richer  than  grew  on  Aaron's  rod, 

And  Mercy  clothe  you  head  to  foot, 
Beloved  and  smitten  of  your  God!" 


[152] 


THE  SOIL  OF  SOLACE 

I    MAY  not  stand  with  other  men,  or  ride 
In  those  grey  fields  where  fall  the  screaming 

shells, 
Or  mix  my  blood  with  blood  of  those  who  died 

To  find  a  heaven  in  their  sevenfold  hells. 
Honour  and  death  a  strident  bugle  blows, 

Setting  an  end  to  death  and  blasphemy — 
Oh,  had  I  any  choice  in  it,  God  knows 

Where  in  this  epic  day  I  too  would  be ! 
Yet  may  I  keep  some  English  heart  alive 

With  a  poet's  pleasure  in  all  English  things- 
Good-fellowship  and  kindliness  still  thrive 

In  English  soil;  the  dusk  is  full  of  wings; 
And  by  the  river  long  reeds  grow;  and  still 
A  little  house  sits  brooding  on  the  hill! 


[153] 


TO  THE  DEAD 

NOW  lays  the  king  his  crown  and  sceptre 
down, 

Her  gown  of  taffeta  the  lovely  bride, 
The  knight  his  sword,  his  cap  and  bells  the  clown, 

The  poet  all  his  verse's  pomp  and  pride — 
The  eloquent,  the  beautiful,  the  brave 
Descend  reluctant  to  the  straight,  cold  grave. 

No  more  shall  shine  for  them  the  glorious  rose, 
Or  sunsets  stain  with  red  and  awful  gold, 

Night  shall  no  more  for  them  her  stars  disclose, 
Or  day  the  grandeur  of  the  Downs  unfold, 

Or  those  eyes  dull  in  death  watch  solemnly 

The  regal  splendour  of  the  Sussex  sea. 

For  them  the  ringing  surges  are  in  vain ; 

They  wake  not  at  the  cry  of  waking  bird; 
The  sun,  the  holy  hill,  the  fruitful  rain, 

The  winds  have  called  them  and  they  have  not 

stirred; 

The  woods  are  widowed  of  your  eager  tread, 
O  dear  and  desolate  and  dungeoned  dead ! 
[154] 


TO  THE  DEAD 

Yet  you  shall  rest  awhile  in  English  earth, 
And  ripen  many  a  pleasant  English  field 

Through    the    green    Summer   to    the    Autumn's 

mirth 
And  flower  unconsciously  upon  the  weald — 

Until  that  last  angelic  word  be  said, 

And  the  shut  graves  deliver  up  their  dead  I 


[155] 


SPRING,  1916 

THE  grey  and  wrinkled  earth  again  is  young 
And  lays  aside  her  tattered  winter  weeds 
For  April-coloured  gauze,  and  gives  her  tongue 

To  jocund  songs  instead  of  pedants'  screeds. 
Scatter  the  thin,  white  ashes  of  the  hearth, 

And   throw   the    brilliant    diamond    casement 

wide — 
Oh,  wonder  of  the  lonely  garden  garth  1 

Oh,  golden  glory  of  the  steep  hillside 
Where  flames  the  living  loveliness  of  Godl  .  .  . 

But  far,  far  off,  beyond  the  bloom  and  bud 
A  fiercer  blossom  burgeons  from  the  sod 

Bright  with  the  hues  of  honour  and  of  blood; 
And  men  have  plucked  the  sanguine  flower  of  pain 
Where  violets  might  be  growing  in  the  rain  I 


THE  RETURN 

BEYOND  these  hills  where  sinks  the  sun  in 
amber, 

Imperial  in  purple,  gold  and  blood, 
I  keep  the  garden  walks  where  roses  clamber, 
Set  in  still  rows  with  shrub  and  flower  and  bud. 

After  the  clash  of  all  the  swords  that  sunder, 
After  the  headstrong  pride  of  youth  that  fails, 

After  the  shattered  heavens  and  the  thunder 
Remain  the  summer  woods  and  nightingales  I 

So  when  the  fever  has  died  down  that  urges 
My  lips  to  utterance  of  whirling  words, 

Which,  blown  among  the  winds  and  stormy  surges, 
Skim  the  wild  sea-waves  like  the  wild  sea-birds. 

So  when  has  ceased  the  tumult  and  the  riot, 
A  man  may  rest  his  soul  a  little  space, 

And  seek  your  solitary  eyes  in  quiet, 

And  all  the  gracious  calmness  of  your  face. 


[1571 


FULFILMENT 

(An  Inscription  for  a  Book  of  Poems) 

YOU  who  will  hold  these  gathered  songs, 
Made,  darling,  long  before  we  met, 
Must  keep  the  prophecy  which  belongs 
To  those  dear  eyes,  so  strangely  set 
With  peace  and  laughter,  where  fulfils 
The  rapture  of  my  alien  hills. 

Unknown,  unknown  you  softly  trod 

Among  my  fruitful  silences, 
The  last  and  splendid  gift  of  God. 

The  quest  of  all  my  Odysseys, 
The  meaning  of  those  quiet  lands 
Where  I  found  comfort  at  your  hands. 

And  when  the  yellowing  woods  awake, 
And  small  birds'  twittered  loves  are  told, 

When  streams  run  silver,  and  there  break 
The  crocuses  to  tender  gold, 

When  quick  light  winds  shall  stir  my  hair, 

Some  part  of  you  will  wander  there. 


[158] 


PROPHECY 

MY  eyes  look  out  across  the  dim  grey  wold, 
The  grey  sky  and  the  grey  druidic  trees, 
Knowing  they  keep  inviolate  the  gold 

Memories  of  summer  and  the  prophecies 
That  lie  imprisoned  in  the  buried  seeds 

Of  all  the  lyric  gaiety  of  Spring.  .  .  . 
The  sun  shall  ride  again  his  flaming  steeds; 

The  dragon-fly  dance  past  on  diamond  wing; 
The  earth  distil  to  music;  and  the  rose 

Flaunt  her  impassioned  loveliness  and  be 
A  symbol  of  the  singing  hour  that  blows 

The  tall  ship  and  my  gladness  home  to  me — 
When  I  shall  cry:   Awake,  my  heart,  awake, 
And  deck  yourself  in  beauty  for  her  sake  1 


[1591 


THE  SINGER  TO  HIS  LADY 

IF  any  song  I  sing  for  you  should  be 
But  made  to  please  a  poet's  vanity, 
A  richly  jewelled  and  an  empty  cup 
In  which  no  hallowed  wine  is  offered  up, 
A  thing  of  chosen  rhyme  and  cunning  phrase, 
Fashioned  that  it  may  bring  its  maker  praise; 
If  love  in  me  grow  only  soft  and  sweet, 
Remembering  not  with  what  worn  and  weary  feet 
It  journeyed  to  your  fields  of  golden  grain, 
The  quiet  orchards  folded  in  the  rain, 
The  twilight  gardens  and  the  morning  birds; 
If  love  remembers  not  and  brings  you  words, 
Words  as  your  thanks;  if  in  an  idle  hour 
It  breaks  its  sword  and  plays  the  troubadour — 
Then  may  high  God,  the  Universal  Lord, 
Break  me,  as  I  false  knight  have  broken  my  sword, 
If  J  who  have  touched  your  hands  should  bring 

eclipse 

To  love's  nobility  with  lying  lips, 
Having  seen  more  terrible  than  gleaming  spears 
Your  gentleness,  your  sorrow  and  your  tears ! 


[i  60] 


CERTAINTIES 

ACROSS  the  fields  of  unforgotten  days 
I   see   the  gorgeous   pearl-white   morning 

burst 
Through  her  fine  gauze  of  dreamy  summer  haze 

Beyond  the  rolling  flats  of  Staplehurst, 
To  bless  the  hours  with  songs  of  nesting  birds, 

And  the  wild  hedge  rose  and  the  apple  tree, 
And  laughter  and  the  ring  of  friendly  words, 

And  the  noon's  pageant  moving  languidly. 
I  walk  again  with  boys  now  grown  to  men, 

And  see  far  off  with  reminiscent  eyes, 
How  in  the  tangled  woods  of  Horsmonden 

The  mighty  sun,  a  blood-red  dragon,  dies.  .  .  . 
Some  things  there  are  as  rooted  as  the  grass 
In  a  man's  mind — and  these  shall  never  pass. 


[161] 


FEAR 

TREAD  softly;  we  are  on  enchanted  ground: 
One  touch  and  every  hidden  thing  lies  bare, 
The  deep  sea  sundered,  suddenly  unbound 
The  awful  thunders  instinct  in  the  air! 

Oh,  these  we  know;  but  what  if  we  should  break 

A  secret  spell  as  easily  as  glass, 
And  stumble  on  their  sleeping  wrath  and  wake 

The  armies  and  the  million  blades  of  grass? 

And  find  more  dread  than  whirlwinds  round  our 

head, 

The  sweep  of  sparrows'  fierce,  avenging  wings, 
The  anger  of  wild  roses  burning  red, 

The   terrible    hate    of    earth's    most    helpless 
things  ? 


Ii62] 


CHARITY 

WHO  think  of  charity  as  milky-eyed 
Know  not  of  God's  great  handmaid's 

terrible  name, 

Who  conies  in  garments  by  the  rainbow  dyed, 
And  crowned  and  winged  and  charioted  with 
flame. 

For  Truth  and  Justice  ride  abroad  with  her, 
And  Honour's  trumpets  peal  before  her  face : 

The  high  archangels  stand  and  minister 
When  she  doth  sit  within  her  holy  place. 

None  knoweth  in  the  depth  nor  in  the  height 
What  meaneth  Charity,  God's  secret  word, 

But  kiss  her  feet,  and  veil  their  burning  sight 
Before  her  naked  heart,  her  naked  sword. 


[163] 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT 

THIS  hour  God's  darkest  mysteries 
Are  plainer  than  the  screeds  of  men, 
Tangled  and  false  philosophies 

Fashioned  by  lying  tongue  and  pen. 

Plain  as  those  bastions  of  cloud, 
Kind  as  the  wide  and  kindly  skies, 

And  in  the  wild  winds  shouting  loud 

The  truths  concealed  from  pedants'  eyes. 

Pages  which  he  may  read  who  runs, 
Where  no  unlettered  man  may  fail, 

Candid  as  are  his  noonday  suns 
Familiar  as  his  cheese  and  ale. 

Him,  Whom  our  eyes  may  see,  our  ears 
Hear,  Whom  our  groping  hands  may  touch- 

Him  we  shall  find  ere  many  years, 
And  finding  fear  not  overmuch. 

Who  gave  me  simple  things  to  keep, — 
Laughter  and  love  and  memories, 

A  farm,  and  meadows  full  of  sheep, 
And  quiet  gardens  full  of  bees, 
[164] 


SIGHT  AND  INSIGHT 

And  those  five  gateways  of  the  soul, 

Through  which  all  good  may  come  to  me, 

Saints  glorious  of  aureole, 

The  flying  thunders  of  the  sea, 

And  feasts,  and  gracious  hands  of  friends, 
And  flowers  good  to  stroke  and  smell; 

Oh,  in  the  secret  woods  He  sends 

The  birds  their  trembling  joys  to  tell! 

He,  too,  is  every  day  afresh 

Hid  and  revealed  in  bread  and  wine, — 
The  awful  Word  of  God  made  flesh, 

Mortal  commingling  with  divine  1 

Shadows  and  evil  dreams  o'erthrown 
With  Dagon  and  the  gods  of  scorn, 

Since  Peace  was  in  the  silence  blown 

On  that  dear  night  when  God  was  born. 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL 

LAY  quietly  Thy  kingly  head 
O  mighty  weakness  from  on  high ; 
God  rest  Thee  in  Thy  manger-bed — 
Sing  Lullo-lullo-lullaby — 
O  Splendour  hid  from  every  eye ! — 
La-lullo-lullo-lullaby  I 

"Ye  mild  and  humble  cattle,  yield 
Room  for  my  little  son  to  lie ; 

Your  God  and  mine  is  here  revealed — 
Sing  Lullo-lullo-lullaby — 
Naked  beneath  a  naked  sky — 
La-lullo-lullo-lullaby  ! 

"Deal  kindly  with  Him,  moon  and  sun; 

No  bird  to  Him  a  song  deny; 
Ye  winds  and  showers  every  one 

Sing  Lullo-lullo-lullaby — 

For  men  shall  cast  Him  out  to  die  .  . 

La-lullo-lullo-lullaby  J" 


[166] 


A  GARDEN  ENCLOSED 

THERE  is  a  plot  where  all  the  winds  are  still, 
A  hidden  garden  where  no  voice  is  heard, 
Only  a  splashing  fountain  and  the  shrill 
Sweet  clamour  of  a  bird. 

The  poplars  guard  like  tall,  grave  sentinels 
Its  peace  inviolate;  and  in  the  tower 

With  careful  ritual  ring  out  the  bells 
The  end  of  each  dead  hour. 

Laburnums,  hollyhocks  and  roses  run 

By  secret  paths — but  who  shall  burst  the  bars? 
Oh,  who  shall  see — except  the  curious  sun 

And  all  the  peering  stars?  .  .  . 

And  Thou  and  Thou,  my  Love,  for  whom  I  keep 
My  heart  a  watered  garden,  all  Thine  own, 

Where  flowers  my  guardian  angel  tends  in  sleep, 
Bright  summer  blooms,  are  grown ! 

Come,  my  Beloved,  come — behold,  the  skies 
Are  fragrant  with  the  evening  scents  and  dew : 

My  soul  hath  sickened  for  Thy  lips  and  eyes, 
And  laden  is  with  rue  1 

[167] 


A  GARDEN  ENCLOSED 

Oh,  Thou  shalt  fly  with  soft  wings  like  a  dove's 
And  hold  me  fast  beyond  all  fate  and  fear, 

And  we  'mid  flowers  shall  tell  our  flowering  loves 
Where  no  one  else  can  hear  I 


[168] 


THE  LOVER 

AN  hour  ago  I  saw  Thee  ride  in  gold 
Along  the  burning  highways  of  the  skies ; 
And  now — Thou  comest  with  soft  and  suppliant 

eyes, 
And  fearing  lest  Thy  love  seem  overbold. 

In  this  dear  garden  set  with  flower  and  tree, 
My  soul,  a  maiden  whom  a  great  king  woos, 
Stands  thrilled  and  silent — Lord,  what  can  she 
choose, 

Dumbfounded  by  Thy  strange  humility? 

Since  Thou  wilt  have  it  so,  my  Lord,  I  bare 
In    love    and    shamefastness    my    soul — Thy 

soul — 
So  lay  Thy  tender  hand,  an  aureole, 

Upon  my  beating  heart,  my  chrismed  hair. 


[169] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-» 

»i|»-l.' 4200111) 


UNIVERSITY  OP  CALIFORNIA 

AT 
LOS  ANGELES 


000557638 


PR 

6025 
M454A17 
1919 


